December 2015 was hot. Like balmy even. 72-75 degrees when I went to the hospital the night we found out we lost Kenley. I was wearing flip flops. We got the best parking spot and walked in all smug because I told myself I wasn’t leaving u till the let me have my baby; She was ready to join us in the world.
December 2016 was cold. December 2017 was even colder– like super cold. Negative temps even! I’m so thankful that each December has been colder and colder. I always fear that it’s going to resemble the worst December of my life and that the temperature might make it harder to handle her birthday. This year we had snow…a lot of snow.
I’m thankful for the stark contrast from the December I lost part of my heart, to the December I’ve known the last two years. I mean December is always going to be December, and nothing will change that but the way it physically feels on my skin helps with the PTSD.
Speaking of PTSD…I went to L&D on 12/30 at like 10:30 p.m. because I had noticed decreased movement. She was of course fine, and I of course had the oldest grumpiest nurse on the floor. When the OB on call came in to talk to me I felt better. She was so kind and easy to talk to. She reassured me that any time I feel like I need to be there, for any reason, that I should just come up. There is no reason NOT to. She said it is never an inconvenience and with our history that she absolutely understands if I want to be there every 30 minutes.
Then, when she could tell I was upset still, she offered to grab the ultrasound machine and we took a look at Rowan. Her tiny little heart beating away in her tiny little chest. Safe and sound. Yet, it offered little reassurance that anything will turn out ok. Kenley was fine at our 36+5 growth scan. She had a strong heartbeat the day before she died. I have it recorded on my phone …
I don’t know. I want to believe everything will be fine, and I have hope that it will be, but it’s always there…that gigantic black cloud. Death. Demise of a perfectly healthy child inside of my body. It’s enough to seriously send you over the edge, no joke.
Some days I don’t know how I’ve made it this far since losing her…