Am I still welcome here?

That might sound like a strange question, since it's not like Ryan will suddenly be alive one day and my membership in this "club" will be revoked. But, since I've had one Rainbow baby and am hoping to have another in a mere 18 weeks, I almost feel like my membership is a bit of a fraud to those mothers who haven't ever welcomed their Rainbow baby.

It's very confusing for me to reconcile in my mind. Yes, on one hand I'm a card-carrying member because I lost my son. But on the other hand, I was fortunate enough to go on to have a living child ... and maybe even another, if the fates allow. Have I canceled out my membership because of that? Do other moms in mourning resent my presence in the club?

Really, I don't know what to think.

I do feel as though I'm viewed differently though. I can't put my finger on it, but it feels different. In an unwelcome sort of way.

But, I can't beat myself up because I was fortunate enough to be sent two blessings after Ryan. Two healthy blessings. And, those blessings don't erase all the pain I still carry in my aching heart, nor do they negate the loss of that little person who made me a mother in the first place. Still, I feel guilty ... like I'm suddenly an intruder where I was once openly welcome.

This shit really doesn't get easier. Just different.

Last time and next time ...

August is almost over; I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'll just assume and hope it's not an oncoming train and instead is the start to a peaceful few months.

This year's August anniversaries have left me feeling vulnerable - especially after experiencing some rather vivid flashbacks to two years ago. Moments that had slipped from my memory suddenly returned and, unfortunately, some of the details that emerged weren't things I ever wanted to think about again. I didn't want reminders of how distraught both Mike and I were during those gruelling 54 hours of Ryan's struggle for life. I didn't want to relive any of the horror, but it found me anyway.

I've thought a lot about those things I wished I had done differently with Ryan. When you're in the middle of your unfolding tragedy, you can't expect to have lucid thoughts - especially when your mind is still unwilling to accept or believe that "this" is happening and that it's happening to you. Back then, it was like I was some wind-up toy that kept going and going. I *had* to keep going; there was no other choice.

I also realized the other day that if I lose another baby, I'll already know how the whole process works. I didn't know anything when Ryan died, because who the hell thinks through something as unimaginable as a baby dying. But, I'd be able to glide through the process the next time. I'd know what things to not waste my precious time on, and what things and moments to cherish. I'd know to call bereavement photographers to capture the fleeting last moments with our child. I wouldn't allow the nurses to keep me from visiting my baby. I'd insist that my angel be dressed in the clothes that were intended for his homecoming, instead of being wrapped in a generic blanket. I wouldn't allow the nursing staff to tape my baby's lock of hair to an index card, never to be stroked again. And, I wouldn't allow myself to feel rushed in saying my final goodbye to my angel and spend more time just gazing at his tiny face and stroking every little wrinkle and dimple.

I hate how rushed everything was back then. Or at least it felt that way because it seemed we never had a moment to sit down and take a deep breath. Every minute was spent in consultations with surgeons and doing our best to make sure that at least one of us was at Ryan's bedside. Even then, I feel I wasn't able to spend enough time with him due to being hounded by my nurse for stats. (I often forgot that I, too, was a patient of the hospital and needed care as well.)

I guess what I'm feeling is perfectly normal, but who the hell knows anymore? It's so confusing and frustrating and I wonder if I'll ever understand any of it.