I felt really heavy yesterday. Not like in, actual weight, but in spirit. It seems like something in my heart is totally open and raw. I've been feeling other's pain acutely, like it was my own. I've always been a very compassionate person, maybe even overly so, but lately...wow. It reminds me of how I felt right after I had each of the girls...so postpartumly hormonal that you feel every wound in the world, it seems. Welcome to motherhood.
I was reading Layla Grace's blog Sunday night, and I wept like it was my own child facing a terminal diagnosis. I read Heather Spohr's blog every day, but a post I read two nights ago touched me so deeply I could palpate the pain. Finally, an innocent post on Facebook, in which I heard of a child born at 25 weeks and whose survival was not looking certain...almost broke me, seriously. In discussing this with my husband, I think I may have figured out what in the world is going on with me...
I have a massive case of survivor's guilt. My Little One had an extremely traumatic gestation and birth, and was born prematurely at 33 weeks. You can read the entire story here. Once I brought her home from the hospital, happy and healthy, I kind of presumed the whole situation was over and done with. But I struggled, wow, did I struggle during her infancy. I'll talk more about that later. But the struggle was made worse by my own dismissal of my feelings-I had no reason to struggle, because I had a healthy baby. During this struggle, I did see a therapist to work on treating what I presumed was postpartum depression. After talking to me for a whole whopping 15 minutes, she informed me that I had PTSD. Post-traumatic stress? Huh? I told her I didn't feel comfortable with that-after all, my situation had ended well. Best outcome I could have had. I had nothing to be post traumatically stressed about.
I then learned that just because a situation ends well, that doesn't discount the trauma that occured before the positive outcome. Interesting. But being my stubborn self, I decided I didn't need a fancy diagnosis or therapy to realize that what I went through sucked. It was over now, things were good, and I just needed to get over it. And I've done an okay job of doing just that.
But the guilt, oh, the guilt. Yes, I could not be more thankful and thrilled that The Little One is happy and healthy, and myself relatively so. (I'm still dealing with some physical ramifications from the severe preeclampsia, but they are manageable.) But lately I've been overwhelmed with these feelings of "Why us?" Why were we chosen to be okay when others were not? Why was I lucky enough to keep my child when other lost theirs? Why did my preemie thrive and grow when others did not? I know, I know I should just be thankful that we're all okay but my heart just cannot help but break for all the other families that are not as lucky as we are.
In consultation with my current therapists, Dr. Google and Dr. Twitter, I've discovered a huge correlation between PTSD and guilt. So maybe the real therapist wasn't as crunchy granola bonkers as I originally believed. Maybe I should give myself a little credit. I always felt like a real asshole for feeling anything but sheer joy over The Little One when there are others who aren't holding their babies right now. Maybe, though, I should let myself realize I went through a really shitty experience. Maybe I should allow myself to grieve the pregnancy that never was-as in, I was so wrapped up in just surviving that I never had a chance to enjoy being pregnant. John and I tell people that the reason we're done having kids is due to a multitude of reasons-we value our sleep, we can't handle another one, we can't afford another one-when in reality, we can't open ourselves up to that kind of trauma again. There's nothing I would love more than to have a son, to give John a son, heck, even another little girl would be a riot...there is just no possible way I could do it again.
I truly think the only thing I can do to get over this guilt is to make something of it. To take advantage of the fact that we were blessed. To do something great with the gift that we've been given. And I think a great start to that is the March for Babies I'm participating with in May. The March of Dimes' main goal is to put an end to prematurity. I think that throwing myself into this cause will hopefully help ease the lingering trauma and residual guilt. And if you would like to honor my little Bugga's amazing survival or a preemie you know who wasn't so fortunate, please feel free to do so here by walking with us, donating, or helping to spread the word. Even just throwing the link up on your Facebook or Twitter is a huge help.
And on that note, I'm going to go play in the sunshine with my happy, healthy daughters-and thank God that I get to do so.
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This post is dedicated to Tamara, and Maddie Spohr, and all the other little ones who will be with us in spirit always.
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