Four years ago today I laid on the couch hoping the contractions wouldn’t start again when I stood up.  They did.  

Two days later I was in the hospital.  

The next day his heart rate dropped dangerously low. Twice.  I was told that it would keep happening.  I was told that next time they might not get him back.  They cut him out of me and took him away.  I was left alone in the recovery room, empty, without a touch of his skin or a glimpse of his face.  

Two years ago I was on bed rest with daily IV fluids.  I had lost nearly 30lbs.  I was anxiously awaiting the ultrasound that would confirm that we would be having another boy.  

Six days later it would confirm another boy and we would joyfully share that with friends and family.  The ultrasound tech would tell us that she couldn’t get good pictures of his brain, but don’t worry, just come back in 3 weeks.  

The next day we got the call that changed our lives.  The doctor thought he saw a problem in the brain images.  We should come back in one week.  The beginning of the end.  

This week sees the anniversary of a near loss, a birth, finding out we were haven another son, and the discovery of a fatal defect.  So many hugs and lows.  Everything is a jumble.  


4 thoughts on “PTSD

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