Carmen Putnam - Rainbow Baby

 

My first baby was stillborn when I was eight and a half months pregnant with her. It was devastating. Three months later, I was pregnant again. We decided to do that. We decided to try for another baby right away. But the second I saw that positive pregnancy test, I thought, well, shit. The problem was not that I didn't actually want another baby. The problem was that I desperately wanted another baby, one that I could keep this time. I knew if I lost this baby too, I would lose myself forever. And from that moment on, I was terrified every single second. 

 

I really had no idea how hard it would be to grieve for one baby while growing another one. I tried not to think about the future. I didn't let myself hope. I tried not to get attached. I didn't even want to tell anyone about the pregnancy. I wished I could do it in secret. It got scary to even go to the grocery store, because I just didn't want to have those standard pregnant lady conversations with strangers, "How far along are you?" is always followed by one of two things. "Is this your first?" or "Aren't you excited?" And for me, those questions were so heavy and so complicated, I never figured out how to answer them. 

 

When I was halfway through my pregnancy, we went in for the standard anatomy ultrasound, and they found that he was a boy and so far, perfectly healthy. And that day, I did, I felt some relief. But I remember very clearly, a few days later, I was sitting in my baby room. It had been stripped down of all the purple and butterflies and baby blankets that had been there when we were expecting to bring our daughter home. Now, it was just a crib, a changing table and a chair. And suddenly, it hit me right in the gut. My whole chest felt hollow and tight at the same time. I knew in that moment that I loved him as much as I had loved her. It felt like I was walking the plank. It was impossible to even imagine a positive outcome. 

 

I was home alone, so I called my best friend, sobbing. And she said, "Is the baby okay?" And I said, “Yeah, but I'm not. [sobs] I love him.” And I did. I loved him so much in spite of myself. I tried to distance myself. I tried not to let him in, just in case. But he was in there, right next to my heart, like he was cuddling up to it. There were times during my pregnancy when I would beg my husband to sedate me. I wanted him to find a way to put me into a medically induced coma and just don't wake me up until the baby makes it out alive. And if he doesn't make it, don't bother waking me. 

 

I wasn't supposed to say things like that though. That's so negative. I felt the need to qualify every statement about the baby with, "If he makes it or if we get to bring him home." But man, that made people really uncomfortable. People kept saying, "Of course, he'll make it," which just felt like a slap in the face. 

 

When I was 36 weeks pregnant, I went into preterm labor and I gave birth to a healthy, living, screaming baby boy. Even though he was a whole month early, he was fine. He was perfect. I just like to believe that he knew I needed him to hurry up. I wish that I could end my story there and say, "And then, we all lived happily ever after and my son is fine." But for me, it's not that simple. A loss like the death of our daughter, it really takes a toll. And then, living in that paralyzing fear every day for so long during my second pregnancy, it wore me down. It changed me. 

 

That day when I realized that I loved him, I also realized that he held my life in his hands. And I hope he never felt that pressure from me. But I hope that someday I can tell him how he saved my life, how he didn't replace his sister but how he brought me hope again. When I wanted to give up because of him, I couldn't. I didn't. They call the baby that comes after a loss the rainbow baby. And I love what they say, which is, "The beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm." Thank you.