taking the minutes as they come

This is hard. I was going to delete this blog, but that didn't seem right. It's like claiming that none of this has happened, but it has happened - as horrible and unfair and rotten as it all is. So last night as I was talking to Arden in my mind, something I do throughout the day and especially at bedtime and waking, I realized that the right thing to do would be to go on writing here, as honestly as I can. Hopefully someday he can read it. Maybe someone will stumble across it and find some tiny bit of solace. Maybe I can keep the darkness from building up inside me. Plenty of potential for something good to come of it, anyway.

I'm not really ready to be totally honest about everything. I still can't quite face what has happened full-on. So I'll deal with what I can, when I can.

When we came home on Thursday, I thought I might just cease to exist from the sheer mass of grief that was consuming me. I was scared that there was something so fundamentally wrong with me that anyone who came into contact with me might die. This is what drove me into therapy last year when we lost a baby at 12 weeks. I was absolutely convinced it was my fault, a punishment or something. I felt I should leave Niek and the kids, and I was totally convinced that the shock of seeing the dead baby had killed the surviving twin, too. And I was nearly mute from the shock and the pain of it all - I couldn't tell Niek what I was feeling or thinking. When I was a kid, I had such a hard time talking to people that I used to write notes instead, so I reverted to that. I guess what I wrote worried Niek because he didn't leave my side for the next few days and he let me use his energy and strength while I had none of my own. It's brought us a lot closer.

When we had the ultrasound tests run on Friday and saw that Arden is indeed still alive and apparently thriving, I could turn my despair to a purpose. I have to take care of myself for him, at the very least. It's basic, but I couldn't grasp much more than that. So we came home and I ate a sandwich. I still cried all day, but I ate my dinner and I went to bed and I tried to go to sleep. We and the kids talked to Arden and everyone began doing what they could to add their own will to his will to survive.

On Saturday, we didn't go anywhere or see anyone or do anything. Okay, it can be seen as denial, but our wounded souls needed some time off to begin the slow process of accepting what has happened. I woke early - around 5 am - and listened to the ducks or swans splashing in the pond under our bedroom window and feeling Arden move. He seems to like the very early morning hours. He went to sleep that night tightly pressed against Niek's hand on my belly. I think he's lonely.

When both babies were doing well and we had all the ultrasounds to ensure they were thriving and healthy, we'd see them pushing against the barrier between them. They'd only stop when the other pushed back, as if they needed to know that the other was still there. Now that his twin is gone, Arden nestles against our hands when we place them on my belly. It's heartbreaking for me, even if I do keep telling myself that I'm reading too much into it all.

He moves differently than any of the other children did in the womb. Max, I remember, tried to burrow his way out via my ribcage on the right side. He wanted to spring, fully-formed, from my chest. Pain? I'm certain that my ribs on that side are permanently dislocated. Nicky and Rowen liked to kick - with Nicky, I remember being able to easily watch my belly ripple as he sought the perfect position - and he was the smallest of the babies! Rowen started moving very actively around the 13th week and she let us know from that point forward that she was a force to be reckoned with. Arden moves, but with very small, almost tentative movements. We've also noticed this on the ultrasounds. He'll move his hands a bit, or shift position, maybe stretch out a leg or two ... but he doesn't kick or flip or bounce. I try not to drive myself crazy worrying if this means something bad. Instead, I try to assume it says something about his character. He is, after all, the smallest little creature in a loud, busy, chaotic household. Maybe he's someone who doesn't rush into things, who prefers to take gentler measures to meet his aims.

I feel such a different bond with him. I'm terrified of losing him, but I want to enjoy whatever time I have with him rather than to live under the shadow of fear. He is the last chance I'll have to have a baby. Our bond is made heavy by its fragility.