It still seems so surreal to me that we're pregnant with our rainbow baby. For those who may wonder what the whole "rainbow" thing is all about, here's a pretty good explanation.
"It is understood that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of any storm. When a rainbow appears, it does not mean that the storm never happened, or that we are not still dealing with it's aftermath. It means that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover, but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy, and hope."
This new baby will not, nor ever could, replace our Hunter. He will always and forever occupy a very special and sacred place in my heart. Just like the rainbow does not mean the storm is over or forgotten, we are also still healing in brand new ways with this new pregnancy. I think the best word to use to describe my feelings is "vulnerability". I've never felt more bare, more exposed. It's unlike anything I've experienced before. I never doubted that I would want to try to have more children, but like most things, you can't anticipate all the feelings, experiences, emotions, etc. that come with being in that place until you get there. I'm opening myself up to the possibility of loss again, to endure the unendurable once again. Of course, I have faith that we will be blessed with a healthy baby this go around. But I also know the other possibility. And as much as I want to fight it, to ignore it, the knowledge of what can and what does unfortunately go wrong hangs around like a dark cloud. The thing is, it's not just our loss with Hunter either. It's all the stories of loss we have come to know that lurk and linger and haunt. Our innocence is gone in that we know too much. We've learned too much. We've experienced too much. Honestly, after you experience a loss and you become familiar with all the things that can go wrong, you almost feel like "How are there any healthy baby's born?". And that makes me so sad. As hard as it is though, and trust me, some days it feels nearly impossible, we are staying positive. When I start to get anxious, I just close my eyes and talk to my baby. Sometimes I just repeat over and over in my head "Healthy, growing, beautiful baby". Over and over. This is definitely the second hardest thing I've ever done. The first is for sure burying Hunter. But making the choice to try again....so hard. If there's a day where I wake up and I'm not quite as nauseous as I was the previous day, it freaks me out. That's how crazy I am! This is the second major test of faith. I pray every day, every minute for the opportunity to keep this baby. I fight back that little voice that whispers "You prayed for Hunter, and look how that turned out." At the end of the day, all I can do is give it to God. For whatever eternal reason, Hunter was not meant to live beyond his miraculous hour and forty minutes (which truth be told, I feel like was for US then for Hunter). I have to have that same faith that no matter what happens, with anything in my life, it all happens according to His divine plan. So I will do all that I can, and hand the rest over to Him. I'm going to talk about my baby's future, the future of this pregnancy, regardless of that nagging feeling that I'm jinxing everything. Because this baby deserves to know how much he or she was loved from the beginning. Not how scared or nervous mommy and daddy were. I'm going to envision a long, healthy pregnancy, and count the days until I get to have a beautiful, joyous birth experience and welcome this amazing little person into the world. I know we will have bumps and hiccups in the road. I'm only discovering the tip of the emotional iceberg here. Being pregnant again has me missing my son in a while new way, and has me mourning and celebrating him in a whole new way. It really is a new path on the road of mourning and loss, and it has to be traveled. Ultimately, I think we will be healed in ways we cannot even begin to imagine, but we will have our share of tears and heartache and anger along the way. All I know is this: my love for my children knows no bounds or limits. Children. I have CHILDREN. Plural. Two. Two beautiful, sweet babies. My arms ache for them both, and I am so looking forward to August, when *hopefully* these empty arms will be filled. Not hopefully. They WILL be. (Positive thinking folks, it's a must in situations like these.)
