If At First You Don't Succeed...

Autopsy results today – drove all the way down to Camden to wait for 2 hours for an appointment with the doctor. All morning long (as well as most of this last week) I’ve made a career out of being anxious. Scott thinks they’ll bring us all the way down to Camden to tell us they don’t know what happened, they don’t know what would happen if we tried again, so good luck. I think there’s gotta be something in the autopsy or pathology to tell us something about why everything happened.

Scott turns out to be right. Doctor doesn’t know what happened, but says the chances of our getting a healthy kid next time are “greater than 50%”, whatever that means. I mean, 51% is greater than 50%, but I don’t like them odds.

I’m flatter myself I’m under no delusions of imagining life to be full of meaning, but honestly, is that it? So there’s no reason this all happened? No reason that my first born child died in my toxic womb, no reason I went through being bedridden, no reason I have ashes instead of an infant? Really? It’s maddening, I expected to be ecstatic if the doctor told us our chances of bearing a healthy child the second time around were probably decent, but instead I’m just angry that there are no real answers. Also sad, for some reason I can’t put my finger on. Scott thinks I just don’t want to give up my grief yet, but that doesn’t ring true in my heart. I understand the anger, but the sadness? It almost feels like the meaninglessness of the loss translates into worthlessness, like my baby’s existence didn’t mean anything and so was worthless.

I want what happened to have some reason, some cause, if only so I can avoid future heartache. Doctor says there’s no way I could have prevented everything that happened, but I feel like I should have been able to. Shouldn’t a mother always be able to protect her child? I wish there had been a way I could have told my body to work better, keep that baby alive, screw the consequences. I’m starting to realize that one of the most horrible things about this whole situation was the feeling of helplessness, the knowing what parts of my body needed to work better, and yet not being able to force them to do so.

So I get to try again anyway. That’s good news, even if I know I’ll be terrified all through the next pregnancy (assuming I’m still as fertile as ever, and Scott’s still shooting live rounds). Even through the anger and sadness I’m still completely sure I want to try again, and soon. I’m going for a gynocology appointment on Tuesday, and if I get the ok from him I’m flushing my birth control pills that night.