Whether it was trouble getting pregnant, a problematic pregnancy, a traumatic delivery, an early loss, a late term loss, several losses -- it seems like these things happen more frequently than I thought they did. I always thought I was the unnatural one for feeling that pregnancy was the most unnatural thing in the world, but now I see that it's not just me. Whereas I left Wylie's viewing feeling alone, I now see just a month and change later that I am surrounded by so many others who are the same. It's the reason that I write. It's the reason that I am hellbent on over-sharing every little detail, in the hopes maybe my words can make others feel less alone. In hopes that maybe by traveling with us on our journey, someone else will feel inspired to continue living theirs. I'm not a secretive person and I'm not someone who really cares much about privacy. I do better when I share, when I write, when I sort of let my life read a little more like an open book. It's like I told my doctor: if there is any silver lining to any of this, it's that I have the ability to help someone else. At this point, that's all I could possibly want.
I had an appointment with my perinatologist this afternoon. It was the one appointment so far that I was truly panicked about. It was the appointment I wanted, the one I begged my OB to help me set up, but the one I was so nervous to actually have. This was, of course, the building where I learned Wylie was sick. It's sort of hard to let any light in when your mind goes dark.
I brought my planner with the intent to jot down notes in case my mind was too fuzzy to truly comprehend the words that doctor was speaking, but I never actually used it. I just sort of started blurting out my fears and concerns and anticipating the worst. I've said it countless times but we hit the Doctor Jackpot and I don't know what I would do without the medical team we have on our side. I walked into my appointment all but shaking from anxiety and ready to break down at any moment, but within moments I realized that this appointment was a good thing. Our doctor had only good things to say. Hopeful things, happy things. Words of promise and a future for our family to expand the way I know it is meant to. Every bad feeling riding on my back sort of let go and jumped off and my entire being felt pounds lighter as I sat there and listened to our amazing doctor explain things in a brighter light than I anticipated. Our perinatologist estimated our risk to be lower than the 3% that I had previously quoted and it was as if every ball of anxiety in my veins just sort of dissipated in that moment. I've been trying so hard all of this time to cling to hope but never having a very good grasp. Today I perfected that. Today I sort of flung myself into the hope that I didn't know how to fully reach.
I go back and forth with being frustrated about there being no explanation why what happened to Wylie happened to Wylie. I'm supposed to accept that nature made some tragic, terrible, ugly mistake in the body of my beautiful, perfect daughter and figure out a way to move on, which is easier said than done. On the flipside, knowing that it isn't something genetic and knowing that the pain of this loss isn't something Ethan will one day have to go through with his own children, it's also a reassurance. Knowing that one day in our future when we decide the time is right, we can most likely bring a healthy baby home, it's a weight lifted off my own heart. It's hope. It's promise. It's some light to look forward to on the days that still feel a little dark. I don't think I will ever be satisfied with there being no explanation for why I lost my daughter, but right now, this hope is good enough to keep us pushing forward as a family. It has to be. And I know she's part of the light that guided us and kept us going.
Our perinatologist referred to Wylie as Ethan's sister today. She said it in passing and I know she didn't even think about it, but it meant more to me than I could ever begin to express to her. Wylie is Ethan's sister and she always will be, even if she isn't here anymore. It seems like a simple enough concept but so many other people are quick to act like she never existed, like she is somehow no longer a part of our family because the idea of her being so is supposed to be painful. At the end of the day, I am most grateful for the team of doctors we have. I know that I have the best people on the other end of the line when it comes time to say "let's do this." And because of their guidance, because of their hope and love, I know that time will come and that together we can bring a baby home awake one day.