Thank you to Mo for posting the Tori Amos song 1000 Oceans. I have been listening to it on repeat over and over the past couple of days and really connect with it right now.
Maybe because 1000 oceans feels like how far away I am from Aminadav and Naava, the two little souls that we came so close to spending our lives with. Maybe because it feels like 1000 oceans is what separates me from a totally different life in a parallel universe, the universe we were living in until last Sunday.
When I suffered my first (much earlier) loss, I spent a lot of time afterwards reliving over and over again in my head those happy last few days before the ultrasound that showed our baby had no heartbeat. How I felt like such a fool knowing I walked around so smug, so expecting of a baby, that unknown to me, had stopped developing.
These days I spend a lot of time reliving over and over again my last few days with Naava and Aminadav before my water broke and all hell broke loose. Our last few days as a family of four. I don't think so much about those initial awful moments when my water broke (more accurately exploded), the complete terror I felt and my shrieks and screams, over and over again, to Y on the phone, to myself, to the neighbor who called the ambulance. By then our fate had already been sealed. Those are not the moments on repeat.
Instead I think of those last few days on bed rest, how much time Y and I spent together in those last evenings, lying on our bed watching sitcoms once he moved the television set into the bedroom with our cat, Harriet, at the foot of the bed. (Harriet is usually not allowed in our bedroom nor are we typically the watch tv in bed type of couple - these are the types of allowances we made during this time.)
How the four of us would lie happily in the bed together in the evenings, Y and I both stroking my swelling belly out of habit. I was already having complications at that point but we were still happy and so blissfully and innocently in love with each other and with our sweet babes.
The hyperemesis, the bleeding, the bed rest - it all seemed part of a rite of passage during a difficult multiples pregnancy following infertility - challenges and some physical suffering for what would be a great reward. But not this - not this awful, horrible thing that came next. There was no rite of passage and there were no rules. No illusions of stay in your bed and you'll be safe, no bargains to be haggled, and no reward.
I think of our last Shabbat together, which was right before my water broke. I was so desperately bored and listless. I think of the fool again. There she is. There she is on the couch so bored, oblivious that these are her final hours with her babies. Always the fool. Always obliviously unaware to what happens next. It's never a happy ending. We've played out almost every possible variation on reproductive misery over the past few years; the only outcome that seems to have evaded us is the one that is most statistically likely - The Happy Ending.
I replay over and over again our final days with Naava and Aminadav, how as anxious and worried as we might have been, we still fundamentally believed that they would stay with us. I look back on my life in a parallel universe, a slice of time and a trajectory that existed such a very short time ago, but that life is now 1000 oceans away.