A year ago today.
An entire year. Oh my goodness. It's gone by so incredibly fast, and yet so unbelievably slow.
A year ago today, I delivered a perfect little girl into this world. A little girl who would never take a breath outside of my womb. I carried her for 39 weeks and 5 days. Full term. And yet, she didn't survive. You think that once you get past the viability mark, you're baby will survive no matter what- at least, that's what we thought.
It's incredible how much I have changed in this past year. I am an entirely different person now because of my daughter. Before, I was happy, carefree, daring, invincible. Now, I know that I can be brought down and nearly destroyed. I now know what true happiness is, and I know the feeling of true heart break. I know that there will always be a reason to worry, that nothing is a given- that anything and everything can be taken from you in the blink of an eye. Nothing, and no one, is safe.
I used to be naive. Sometimes I wish I could have that back. But then I remember if I had that naivety back, I wouldn't have Lilly. And I don't want that. Despite the pain and hell I have gone through since her passing, I would never wish her away. I would relive this entire year if only I could hold her again. That's crazy, right? Wanting to deliver a dead baby again, recovering from that delivery, undergoing surgery to fix what went wrong on my end during delivery, the depression, the PTSD, the slight addiction to pain killers which I developed, the weekly therapy sessions, the months of infertility, the side effects from the infertility medications, the insensitive comments, the crying... So much ugly crying- the kind where you can't control yourself and every hole in your face leaks. But I would do it again. I would. Just to hold her. To see her face again. Just to feel her weight in my arms. To hold her hand, to look at her tiny toes, to search her face for likeness to my own.
You know what sucks the most? We wanted her. We wanted her from the beginning- before the beginning. Do you have any idea of all the testing and needles I endured just to get pregnant with her? The worry that something might have gone wrong because of a medication I took before we knew I had conceived? There are parents who have "whoops" babies all the freaking time. Drug addicts who become pregnant, mothers who leave their babies at the hospital- sometimes I like to think "why did mine die? Why not theirs? They don't even want their babies." It's frustrating. And I know we don't have it as bad as others- I've met mothers whose babies were conceived through IVF, and theirs were stillborn full term as well. It's their stories that hurt my heart even more. They wanted their child just as much as we wanted ours. They paid thousands of dollars just to conceive, and their child still wasn't safe. It's sad. This is an unfair world. An incredibly cruel, and unfair world.
And I hate that we can't watch her grow up. Instead, I watch other children who were born within a few weeks of her death and delivery. First birthday photos have started floating around Facebook. Chubby baby cheeks covered in frosting, adorable photo shoots... We don't get that... We didn't get to see her roll over for the first time, crawl for the first time, to take her first steps. I wasn’t even able to dress her-not even once. I'm not able to see what face she would have made if I were to give her a lemon slice. I haven't changed hundreds of diapers, cleaned spit up off my shirt, or cleaned poo from the bathtub. There have not been sleepless nights filly by a crying infant- instead, they were full of my own crying. I should have been planning her birthday party- I should have been decorating a cake in pink frosting. I may have even have waited to announce our current pregnancy till her birthday if she were still here. That would have been fun, wouldn’t it? Picture Lilly, with her big cheeks, a huge bow, her little toothy grin and waving with balloons around her and a shirt that says “Big Sister.”
This past year has been hard. Sooo incredibly hard. But you know what? It’s also been pretty great. Yeah, it’s been hell, but we have had so much love and support from all of our family and friends. And I have seen how God placed special people in my path this entire time. I didn’t know why I was so compelled to go to Madison Women’s Clinic when I knew I had fertility problems. At the time, I just felt like it was the right place to go. And now I know why- both of the OBs who practice there were so incredibly kind and caring after we learned of Lilly’s passing (they were cool before, but were so much cooler after). Turns out, both doctors had also experienced stillborn children. They knew the feelings and emotions and trials that my husband and I would go through. They had walked the path that we were now walking. And the nurses! I loved all of the nurses who ever took care of me. I got to know the receptionists over the two and a half years that I visited that office. When I returned for my six-week check up, they took me back and cried with me. They cried with me! I have been able to be there to support other mothers through similar circumstances because of what I have experienced. And because of our daughters passing, Mr. Barcenas and I have grown together like I never knew we could before. Our relationship has strengthened and solidified. Before, we had it good. Like any other couple, we would argue every now and then, and we loved each other. It really was a great relationship before. But now, we have a different kind of love. It’s deeper, and in my opinion, something that will be much harder to break or fade away. We’ve survived what I believe to be one of the most difficult trials that God could have thrown our way. And we are so much stronger because of this. I really think that’s been the best thing to come out of Lilly’s death- how my marriage is better.
I’m hoping that this next year continues to get easier, and that the pain will be easier to handle. I remember where I was at just nine months ago, and to compare that time with now is crazy- I’m in a much better place emotionally now, and I can handle my emotions better. Sure, I still cry, I still miss my daughter, and I still want her here, but my scars have thickened, and the same painful jabs don’t hurt as bad.
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