Mortality

Yesterday I convinced myself for much of the day that I am dying. I have had some aches and pains since my half marathon about a week ago, and I went to the doctor yesterday. Sparing the details, my blood work showed that everything, pretty much, is low. In other words, my immune system is severely depleted. It's no wonder I was sick for almost a month.

The good news? I discovered that I was a little sad about dying. I guess I don't really want to. Now, before you run out and call Mental Health Services on me (maybe for the second time), please note that wanting to be with one's dead child, aka-dare I say it?-wanting to die, is a very normal feeling for a parent. And it is NOT the same as being suicidal. Of course, now I can't find the link to the academic article discussing the above. But, I promise I'm not making it up. Actually, you're hearing it straight from the horse's mouth, because I'm living it.

Anyway, I don't want to die. Not wanting to die = progress for a bereaved parent.

I'm generally healthy. But, all did not go well at the doctor's office. First, my iron was perfect. I fought anemia for months when I was bleeding so much during bed rest and well after Weston was born. Why is good iron count a bad thing? Because anemia would be one step closer to who I was physically when Weston was with me. Because I was pregnant this time last year, the fact that there is very little physical evidence of his existence now is especially painful. There is only my scar, which almost no one will ever see.

The other thing, which only matters during pregnancy: I have a genetic mutation that prevents the absorption of folic acid. Why is this a bad thing? Folic acid is absolutely crucial to a developing fetus...and a developing placenta. I took folic acid before and during both pregnancies, but apparently my body can't absorb and utilize it very well. However, already-converted folic acid exists in the form of a pill. So, maybe all I had to do was take a different effing pill, and Weston would be with me today.

Yes, I know I had a normal pregnancy with Caroline. Yes, there could be a million other reasons why my placenta failed my son so horribly. Yes, millions of mothers never take a single milligram of folic acid, and their babies turn out fine. Yes, millions of other mothers get drunk, inject illegal drugs, and otherwise abuse their bodies during pregnancy, and their babies turn out fine. But the fact will always remain that Weston was in MY body. I was the only human responsible for his well-being during that time. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but A PILL? Was the only thing standing between life and death for Weston a little tiny pill?

Speaking of dying, my lower back has been achy since the half marathon. I even read in Runner's World magazine the other day that lower back pain is somewhat common in runners. But yesterday I convinced myself that it is actually kidney pain and that I have cancer throughout my abdomen.

The thing is, once you lose a child, life becomes a series of awaiting and expecting the (next) worst case scenario. Like kissing Caroline every time I buckle her in the carseat. Like scrutinizing the hook holding up the heavy chandelier every time we sit down at the dinner table. Like panicking when Shannon is running late on his way home from work and not answering his phone. Like lower back pain. Daily occurrences, everyday objects, and physical twinges turn into horrific accidents, items that can kill you, and cancer.

So, I did the only thing that calms me down: I went for a run (ironically, my body is finally rebelling at all of the running: hello to achy knees and goodbye to immune system). It was dusk, it was cold, it was cloudy, and it was windy. I played The Civil Wars and zoned out. And I missed Weston terribly, as usual. But, it was during my run that I concluded that my aching back is probably not cancer.

Today is Mardi Gras. It is also two days before Valentines Day and the birthday of another baby who died way too soon. (People remembering Weston's birthdays means the world to me, so I try to do the same for others. Sadly, my calendar is full of such birthdays.) I'm not feeling very festive, although I am going to drink some cheap off-brand Irish cream and eat some chocolate in about five minutes. I bought some little Valentines Day goodies for Caroline, and Shannon and I will figure something out in the next couple of days. And, of course we're observing Valentines Day with Weston, in this way:

That's why I'm not feeling festive. But I'm glad to be alive today, and that's a good thing.