There seems to be no hope.
The 24 weeks viability doesn’t apply to us because the small baby is significantly small.
I’m sitting in the car on the way home from the hospital, next to me is the father of my children.
I don’t sing the song shouting out from the radio, although I know it very well and love it.
We don’t talk.
Every now and then, he asks me if I’m okay. I confirm briefly with an “I’m fine”, but I’m not okay.
How could I be okay with this?!
How could I not feel simply horrible because the first part of my pregnancy, 18 weeks was all about feeling utterly sick and vomiting and finally when it’s gone, something even worse takes its place.
I want to sleep. I wish I could sleep off and just stay like that until it’s finally time for them to arrive to this world.
If they are still with me.
Stroke. Brain damage. Death.
They don’t want to sugarcoat it. This is what could happen to my big baby if the small one dies inside.
24 weeks, we tell them no RFA. We have heard 6 different doctor’s version of what can happen.
I’m not God, I don’t want to act like God. I don’t want to do a job that’s not mine.
They understand. No more RFA talk, simply the occasional question if we feel like we have every information to make this decision – every now and then.
Just to keep us on our toes. Just to make us feel we’re making a mistake.
And the “reassurance” that we can change our minds.
He never really considered RFA – the father. The new father who has to go through all this emotional hell with me week by week.
And when I can finally commit to get on board, he somehow doesn’t seem so certain anymore.
I cry, because he asks me what I’m thinking. What I want to do from the bottom of my heart.
I cry again because I can’t be doing this anymore. I can’t be going back and forth over and over again.
What do I want?
I want to make peace with my decision. I want not to feel guilty for not killing my baby so my other baby can be safer inside my body.
I want to stand up for my decision and cry when nobody sees. I don’t want him to suddenly feel uncertain and ask me this question.
We get on board together, again. We won’t kill one of our babies so the other can surely live.
What is sure anyway?!
28 weeks. 500 grams. New numbers, new measures to keep holding in front of us. We need to get there.
Taking it one week at a time…
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