I've decided to try it again, mostly as a place for me to think out loud. My mind is so jumbled with thoughts that I can't concentrate on anything else. Or sleep. I'm hoping that after I put my thoughts 'down on paper', my brain won't feel quite so jumbled and cluttered.
I don't really have the energy to start from the beginning right now. I'll have to do that another time. The following is a letter I sent out to family and several friends last night:
Dear Friends,
It's been a long day. One of the longest I've had.
We had our ultrasound this morning, and for 30 blissful
minutes, we were able to enjoy watching our baby girl kick and squirm. She's a
fiesty little thing - stubborn, too. Our sonographer had to do a good bit of
chasing and poking to get her to cooperate. :-)
For a short time, she was perfect. I pictured her a few years
from now with long blond hair and big blue eyes, dancing with her daddy in our
living room.
But then our doctor came in to discuss the findings of the
ultrasound. She was concerned about several things - the way our little girl
has formed so far. Her concerns were serious enough that she sent us almost
immediately to the maternal-fetal specialist at the women's hospital. At least
we didn't have to wait days or weeks to see the specialist. I was already in
tears by the time we left - and I guess it's never a good sign when the nurse
gives you an entire BOX of kleenex when you leave the office.
Another ultrasound was performed at the hospital. The
specialist came in and explained all of his findings - it's all sort of a
jumbled mess in my head. But it comes down to this - little Lindegren girl most
likely has Trisomy 13 or Trisomy 18, both chromosomal disorders. Similar to
Downs, but more serious. From what I've read, 50% of babies born with either of
these don't survive longer than a few days after birth, if they make it that
far. And 90% don't survive past their first birthday. Some live a few years,
but with significant medical problems.
I don't even know what to tell you about how Jason and I are
doing. We haven't told the kids yet, we don't really want to make this 'public'
knowledge yet, but we know we can't avoid that forever. We don't really know
how to go through the next 4-5 months of pregnancy. We walked out of the
specialist's office today and I saw a great big bunch of pink balloons at the
end of the hall, probably in celebration of a mom and baby girl who were about
to head home. I burst into tears at the sight of it. This is going to be
really, really hard.
I guess I should ask you to pray, but it feels weird to do
that, since He and I aren't really on speaking terms right now. So if you feel
led to pray, go right ahead. You can do it on my behalf. Because right now, I
just can't.
Thanks for your love, support, and friendship. If you have
any questions, you can feel free to ask. Not sure I'll be able to answer, but
I'll try.
Shannon
Today, I just have these thoughts that I don't know what to do with. They're random. No order to them.
I open Missy's closet door and see her dresses hanging up. I
start crying when I realize that our unborn baby girl will probably never wear
them.
I wonder what the first moments after she's born will be like.
Will she go straight to the NICU? Will she be breathing? Will I get to hold her?
I look at Seth's perfect little face and wonder what my little
girl will look like. Seth asks to be carried or in my lap a lot, and I have
indulged him every single time today, wondering if he'll be my last baby to
hold.
I don't know what to prepare for. Most moms buy clothes for
their unborn babies. They gather blankets and diapers and burp cloths. I long to
go shopping for beautiful girlie dresses and hairbows. Do I go to the hospital
with nothing for her, anticipating that I will return home without a baby? Or do
I take a stocked diaper bag and take the risk that I'm going to have to empty it
out and give it all away because my daughter is gone?
I have no appetite. But I eat. Mostly because I know how
absolutely physically awful I will feel if I don't. I eat because little girl
Lindegren is still growing. She needs the calories. Even though they will do
nothing to save her.
I sing Seth's favorite song, 'Lulu', to him and choke up
because I wonder if I'll ever be able to hold this unborn baby and sing it to
her. And if she'll ever make her own sweet attempts to sing it with
me.
I look at Levi's big blue eyes and wonder if hers will be the
same beautiful ice blue. And if I'll ever be able to see them.
She got the hiccups today. I felt them - those rhythmic
little pops. She's practicing swallowing. I've felt her move several times
today. Maybe expressing her objection to all those things the doctor said about
her yesterday. And how he kept calling her 'it'.
It hurts to think about her name. The name we've had picked
for several weeks now. It took us months to settle on our other childrens'
names. But I've had this one in mind for years. It holds a great deal of
significance, and I'm having a hard time with that significance, now that the
circumstances are so unimaginably awful.
Maybe this was all just a bad dream. Maybe I'll wake up
tomorrow and she'll be perfect. Maybe they were looking at someone else's baby
on the ultrasound screen yesterday.
Sobbing as I read this. I'm so sorry.
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