In the weeks and months after Vivienne died, it was easy for
me to become consumed with all of the what-if’s that surrounded her birth and
death. What if I had gotten to the doctor or hospital sooner. What if I had
screamed and raised holy hell insisting on being examined sooner. What if they had
been able to hold off delivery for just a few weeks. All of these what-if’s, wondering
whether doing one thing differently would have led to a better outcome.
I still have those moments where the what-if’s overcome me
and can’t be stopped. I try to tell myself that we did the best that we could
with the information we had at the time. We never knew that something like this
could happen, so how could we be responsible for knowing how to navigate it?
But that doesn’t mean that we won’t ask the questions. We will always wonder,
and we will always regret.
The what-if’s are getting the best of me again. Our latest
news that I won’t be able to carry another child has brought them flooding
back. With hindsight, I can see what an absolute miracle Vivienne was for us.
If any one of those what-if’s had worked out differently, our lives would be so
very different today.
For months now, I have thought about what our life would be
like if I could get a do-over on just one of those what-if’s. Wondering where
we’d be today if she had lived. It’s a bit of mental torture, but one that
can’t really be helped. Would we still live in our house? (we had planned to
move to another neighborhood) Would we be at the jobs we are now? (Gordon changed
jobs after she died. Mine stayed the same) Would we be trying for another
child?
Now that we’ve survived bad news after bad news in our
journey to have another child, I also have to think through everything else
that was taken from us with Vivienne. If any of those what-if’s had gone
differently, I wouldn’t have had the D&C’s after she was born. I wouldn’t
have developed the scar tissue. My lining wouldn’t be permanently damaged. And
I’d be able to carry another child. When we lost Vivienne, we felt like we’d
lost everything. As it turns out, we lost much more than we ever could have
expected.
It took me a while, but I stopped searching for a reason for
Vivienne’s death some time ago. But I do still wonder why all of this has
happened to us – why we continue to have more barriers put in our way, and why
we’re on the receiving end of seemingly endless bad news. I know there are lots
of people who want there to be a reason all of this is happening – trust me, I
do too. But I can’t find one that feels right. Many of the loss Moms that I
know who have gone on to have their rainbow child tell me that they can now see
that the child they lost made the ultimate sacrifice so that the children they
had after them could be here. I’ve held on to that sentiment – feeling in my
heart that this might be the reason that felt right to me someday.
It’s almost 2 years later, and I’m still trying to hold on
to that idea. It’s the only “reason” I think I’ll ever be able to live with. And I
still hope that will be the case. Until then, though, I wonder what if, and if only.
I'm having to come to a place where I no longer question why, just learn to accept "what is". It's the hardest thing to do. I read this recently: To live out our grief with faith is not the same as being strong. In fact, 2 Corinthians 12:9 says that His grace is sufficient for you, His power is made perfect in your weakness. Weakness leads to surrender. And it is in surrendering….not understanding that we find peace. I'm having to come to a place of surrender, not understanding. The trying to understand leads me in an endless rat maze, but when I surrendered, I found peace. It sounds crazy, but it truly is what that verse says "peace that passes all understanding". I pray that for you today on the road to finding your peace. I get it, I really do. I struggled to get pregnant for 2 years, after being told that the chances were not good. It finally happened in oct. of last year, only to end in tragedy in feb. of this year. It's been the worst kind of hell to walk through, but I know that I've never been alone. *Hugs*
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