Waiting...

It's been said that waiting is the hardest part of any worthwhile feat, and while I don't know if that will be true with Quinn, it is starting to feel a little torturous. It's not even necessarily the waiting part that is bothering me; it's the unknown part of it all. I'm not talking about not knowing how big she will be, what color her hair will be, or whether I'll be in labor for a long time. The unknown parts that bother me are whether she will be healthy, whether she will be born alive, or whether she will survive every day. To be honest, I think that every day of her life will be a milestone for her and for us. Will I ever feel a sense of permanence with her? Will I always see her (and everyone around me, really) as the child who could die at any moment? I want to be able to enjoy her, and I know that I will. I guess I just worry that underneath it all will always be this nervousness that some sort of tragedy is right around the corner. I don't think that this is an unnatural way for me to be feeling, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. Sometimes I just wish that I had that naivety that many parents do about the fragility of their children's lives. I feel like that sounds snobby, but I don't mean it that way. I mean that before Max died, I of course knew that horrible things could happen. I worried about them happening. But horrible things happened to other people. My fears always felt so irrational and unfounded. Now, horrible things have happened to me. My fears don't feel the least bit irrational or unfounded. Lori and I discussed this the other day. It's like we expect something bad to happen. We wondered if this is our new "normal" way of thinking and living. If you think about it, how could it not be? Our babies died of absolutely nothing. How could the world not be a scarier place after that? How could we not feel more vulnerable and less in control? How could we not question whether the gifts we've been given will suddenly be ripped away from us?

The past two weeks have been difficult for me emotionally. I feel constantly worried if Quinn isn't moving around. I even went to the doctor to have her heartbeat checked because I had convinced myself that something wasn't right. I try to tell myself that she's fine and that everything will be okay, but it's a much more difficult task to make myself actually believe it. I've had quite a few evenings filled with painful contractions that brought me, oddly enough, hope and joy. I thought that I would surely wake up in the middle of the night to find that the contractions were regular and closer together. Then we could go to the hospital, deliver Quinn, and everything would be fine. Obviously, this hasn't happened yet. I wake up the following morning and discover that the contractions have stopped. I really don't want to induce for several reasons, but I'm not going to list them here. I truly want Quinn to just come on her own. I can deal with the physical discomforts of being 40+ weeks pregnant, but the emotional ones are becoming a little bit troublesome. Even Scott is feeling scared now, which is a big change from how he has been feeling. If I don't go into labor by my next appointment on Monday, then we will schedule an induction date. Preferably for five minutes after my doctor's appointment. :) Without going into too many details, my body has prepared itself and is hopefully still making progress. Unfortunately, nothing has happened in the way of labor progressing. Going much past 40 weeks scares me because there are too many risk factors...what if the placenta deteriorates too quickly? I haven't gained any weight in almost 7 weeks, so what if she has already stopped growing and needs to come out? I've done enough questioning and what-iffing over the past year. I would like a little break now.

There is a title given to babies, like Quinn, who come after the loss of a child:  "rainbow babies." The whole idea behind the title is that the rainbow baby comes after a "storm" has ravaged a family. The appearance of the rainbow baby doesn't mean that the storm never happened or that we aren't still dealing with its aftermath; it just brings something beautiful and hopeful to the mix. This makes perfect sense to me because I feel a lot of conflicting emotions when I think about what life with Quinn will be like. I imagine holding her right after she's born, and I think about how happy I will feel to have been given such a beautiful gift. I mean, no matter how you think about it, the fact that two people can form a new life is simply amazing. I also wonder if I'll feel sad to remember all that I lost when Max died. I imagine feeding her, changing her diaper, pushing her around in the stroller, and playing with her, and I wonder the same thing. What I do know is that since June 10, 2011, my arms have felt painfully empty, and I can't wait for Quinn to be placed in them. So, is waiting the hardest part? Maybe it is. Maybe all of my fears will go away when Quinn finally makes her appearance in this world. Maybe meeting her is the only thing that will quell the anxiety that I feel now. Until then, I would certainly appreciate any positive thoughts and prayers that you can give to us.