I know. I KNOW. Trust me, I have heard it from my husband, doctor, nurses, family and friends. My first-born child’s death at 18 weeks was not my fault. But I can’t help but feel that I am responsible.
I didn’t do drugs. I didn’t eat a gallon of goat cheese. I didn’t have lunchmeat or smoke cigarettes. I avoided certain yoga poses and refrained from allowing my heart rate to go above a certain zone when working out. I did, however have 3 glasses of wine in 4 months.
(Stone me now ladies. Two weeks on my What to Expect App and I deleted it. I read a thread of about 40 women attacking a woman for having a glass of wine. Shame on you 40 women.)
I took my prenatal pills, drank tons of water, slept like a champ. I read the right books. I didn’t stress out at work.
And my body did hell of a job, if I do say so myself. My skin broke out like I was a teenage boy. My belly became hard and poked out further than it normally did. I had nosebleeds. My prized possession and claim to my own personal fame, my hair looked like I had snow in it, thanks to dandruff. I threw up and learned I will never be able to see a sweet potato in my life. Basically, I have never felt SO DAMN SEXY in my life. Ha.
The baby’s heartbeat was strong with every appointment. Every ultrasound proved that our kiddo was growing and actually quite active. The doctor was confident and happy, as we were.
The pathology report confirmed what our doctor speculated. Our child got caught in his own umbilical cord.
But even, with all of this. I have this deep down feeling that I could have somehow, with my super mom powers, done an epic yoga pose to untangle our baby. Or reached right up in there and wiggled our boy out of his tangled cord.
Absurd, I know.
The analogy to better tell my husband how I felt was:
So it’s my responsibility to take our dog out for a walk. It was my duty to take her out to pee, stretch her legs and enjoy the outdoors. I had one job. Take her out for a walk and bring her home.
Well then all of a sudden the damn dog sees a damn squirrel, gets off the damn leash and gets hit by the damn car.And now I have nothing to take back home, because our dumb, sweet dog was just being herself and got into an accident.
Now I am not comparing my child to our damn dog, nor even saying our son’s death is even close to losing a pet. And yes I call our lovable, stupid sweet lab Damn Dog a lot. If you know Bella, you would agree.
I know it wasn’t my fault but I feel like I could have done something to protect my dog from her accident.
Does that make sense?
As a mother I feel like I could have done something when in reality, I could have done NOTHING to prevent the cord from wrapping itself around our baby’s neck. But this guilt doesn’t want to go away and probably won’t for a long time.
And I know it’s going to be a long process. With time I will learn that I am not at fault, even though I know deep down it’s not my fault.
Any other mom’s out there feel guilt for when your child was sick or died?