. . . doesn't always make it better.
Labor Day weekend I was fortunate to be able to spend a couple of days with my best friends from college. It was an amazing weekend with a perfect mix of just hanging out and going out, and lots of good food and time for catching up with each other. During our reunion one of my friends asked me a question which made me realize that there is a big part of my hospitalization/Michael's birth that I haven't talked much about. She asked me when we might think about having another baby. Through no fault of her own that question caused an uncomfortable silence and I realized only about half the people in the room knew that we'd been told not to have another baby.
When Michael was born, via c-section, the operation took about twice as long as normal, apparently due to the amount of scar tissue from the c-section I had with Harper. Apparently the combination of the complications I had with Michael's pregnancy (no one knows why it happens, but it is likely to happen again if it has happened before) and the trouble they had with the surgery led the doctors to urge us not to get pregnant again. One of the doctors came over and told us this while I was still being operated on! And I heard it repeatedly before I was discharged from the hospital.
We have been told not to have any more babies and it makes me feel terribly sad.
Even though I have two beautiful, healthy children. Even though we may only have chosen to have two anyway. Even though we could certainly look into adoption down the road. I'm still sad.
I'm sad that I'll never be pregnant again and I'm sad to loose the possibility of another child. I think I would feel that way no matter how many children we had. There would always be a last baby. Michael may very well have been our last baby.
But for me, for now, the difference between choosing not to have any more children and being told we can't have any more children is a big one.