Our story: our struggle 

 

On the way home from the appointment, all I could think about was how I was going to even begin to tell Jacob. For anyone that knows my husband, even a little, you already know that his birthday is one of the most important days of the year. In fact, I think it ties ranks with Christmas. We found out Friday, and his party was Saturday. How was I going to even begin to tell him that our baby was just given a seemingly unavoidable death sentence? I mean goodness, he was so excited about having kids that he used to kiss my belly BEFORE I was even pregnant (like years before). I used to joke that I had never met a man more excited about having children than Jacob. In those moments, I had never felt that to be more true, and it weighed heavier on me than the diagnosis itself. 

 

I considered, for a brief moment, holding in the news until after his party but I knew that wasn't fair, and I knew he wouldn't let me get away with it. He knows me too well. I texted his mom that she needed to come over. There was bad news about the baby. I knew I couldn't tell him alone. I had my mom there, and he needed his too. 

 

When we got to the apartment, I told Jacob alone in our room. My mom told Gail (J's mom) and Amber (his sister) the news. There were many tears shed that day. A fog of confusion, anger and grief fillled the room and I knew then that they felt the same as I did: something had been stolen from them. 

 

In the next hours, my dad, Don, my sister Laura and her fiance Justin came up to grieve with us. Missy, our sister-in-law brought us dinner and our Pastor, Brad came over for a few minutes.  Jacob's best friend Jason came too.  

 

I couldn't even begin to understand what to do. I would love to say that I fought for my baby from the very beginning, but in honesty, I can't. In fact, I couldn't see the purpose behind carrying. We had two options: terminate and try again after one reglar menstrual cycle, or carry. In my mind, and Jacob's as well, carrying meant one thing: torture. 

 

I would continue to gain weight and look more pregnant with each passing day. We would feel our baby kick, knowing he/she wouldn't be able to do so for much longer. We wouldn't be able to set up a nursery of course, or have baby showers. Why would you do any of those things for a baby that was going to die? People would soon start to stop me and ask if I was excited about the baby and ask about the due date. How was I to answer them? I was not anywhere close to excited. I began to resent my body and the life inside of it. This life, inside of me, was the source of all of our pain, grief and anguish. I could see it every time I looked in the mirror. I could feel it changing my body and causing fatigue. And if I tried to hide it? Well, I just looked fat. 

 

We couldn't even go to church on Sunday because we couldn't bear to face the questions, tears and compassion (yes, its even hard to face compassion sometimes). We just wanted everything to go away. Be overwith. Be done.