They were so much longer than usual.
The moment a woman becomes pregnant, her body is no longer hers alone. She shares it for nine months, longer if the baby breastfeeds. Pregnant women usually radiate life, health, and vitality. People talk about that pregnancy glow.
Perhaps a more appropriate word than "share" is "surrender." The pregnant woman surrenders her body. When the baby is born, she surrenders her time. And, at some point between surrendering her body and her time, she surrenders her heart.
The pregnant mother radiates life because she is literally growing a baby. The growth is invisible, except for belly size and ultrasound pictures, until she gives birth.
My pregnancy with Weston was vastly different. I became unhealthier than I have ever been to give him life. Believe it or not, spending months in bed takes a huge physical toll (and we won't even get into the mental/emotional/spiritual toll here). Toward the end of my pregnancy, my muscles had atrophied. I would lift up my leg and see sagging skin. Although my belly grew, I actually lost weight. Weeks in a hospital bed began to cause excruciating back pain to the point where I needed physical therapy. I couldn't sleep. I wasn't allowed to walk except to the shower. Lying in bed posed a danger of blood clots, so I had to wear compression socks whenever I was in bed.
And, of course, the blood. I lost this life-giving substance continually for three months. Blood loss was the root of my anxiety. More blood loss meant a higher likelihood of early labor, which, at that time, would mean certain death for Weston. I could often feel blood coursing out of me; it felt like life leaving my body. Too much blood loss inevitably led to invasive and traumatic exams, always in the middle of the night.
But, while I experienced this physical decay, Weston grew and thrived inside of me. Every week he grew. The ultrasounds confirmed it, but I could tell by the way my pajama pants grew tighter, even as I lost weight. Toward the end of my pregnancy, his kicks grew stronger. He'd fight to get away from the Doppler every time. And that heartbeat was music to my ears, twice a day. It was so strong, so constant.
Until July 7, 2012, when my physical decline caught up with him and left him literally gasping for air. We both could have died that night. I was no longer enough. I was sawed in half so that he could be rescued from the tomb that my body had become.
Then, the tables turned. In an instant, this thriving 24-week-old baby became a micro-preemie on a ventilator, fighting for his life. As for me, I was stitched up, and I began to grow stronger immediately.
My one-pound six-ounce baby dropped down to one pound two ounces (I was told this is normal, but there's not a whole lot of wiggle room there). He was always connected to at least four tubes, with two down his throat. His lungs started deteriorating as soon as he was born. When he finally started gaining weight, his lungs were so bad that he had to be put on an oscillator: the highest level of breathing assistance. He hated the oscillator so much that he had to be sedated. As he got older, his list of medical issues grew longer. The list became too long on July 28, 2012.
On the other hand, my physical strength returned. I could finally walk again. I stopped bleeding. My incision started to heal as soon as it was stitched up. Without the constant blood loss, my nutrient levels returned to normal. The color in my face returned. I got to go home and sleep in my own bed.
My milk came in: the very definition of life and vitality. I pumped an entire freezer full of milk, and Weston consumed maybe an ounce of it.
And, my fingernails. I had been on prenatal vitamins for months, and I continued taking them because I was "breastfeeding." The vitamins make my fingernails stronger in general, but they really started growing after Weston was born. You can see the result in the pictures.
And that is why my fingernails capture my attention in the photos every time. There is a dead baby, my dead baby. They are, quite literally, pictures of death. Yet the hands that hold that baby are stronger and healthier than they had been in months. The contrast is stark.
Perhaps the body cannot always fully distinguish between love and grief. (Actually, there is nothing to distinguish: grief comes from love.) After Weston died, my milk supply multiplied exponentially because I had held him all day. My body did not know that the baby no longer needed the milk. I became a literal fountain of life. For nothing.
Grief does unbelievable things to the body. I won't get into all of that here. But I started running again anyway, about a month after Weston died. And the physical capabilities of my body just increased from there. Less than six months later, I ran my first half marathon in about five years, only four minutes slower than my fastest time ever.
It takes multiple systems of the human body working together to successfully run a half marathon. As I crested the final hill in that race, with the entire valley before my eyes, I marveled at the central players of my ability at that moment: my lungs. Weston's lungs were not enough. Somehow, mine had become enough to power me through 13.1 fast miles. I breathed for both of us.
Our physical trajectories met in the middle like an X, ever so briefly, last July. As a result, Weston's DNA will be in my body for the rest of my life. One year later, I continue to carry his heart in my heart. They both inhabit the middle of that X.
