One

One.  We only planned on having one.  One child would be perfect, we thought.  So when we found out there was a serious problem with this pregnancy, it felt strange to start thinking about the next.  It felt like we had our one, our Frank, and thinking about another baby was like cheating on him.  But it was the only hope we could feel at the time and we let it in.

Yesterday, three months after delivering our Frank, we received the autopsy results.  Our baby was as perfect as possible, small but "grossly normal."  Such an odd turn of phrase but that's what it says.

What wasn't normal was the placenta.  We knew there had been a blood clot and thought that was all that kept Frank from getting what he needed to continue growing.  We had been told that, barring any other complications, the chance of having another placental blood clot in a future pregnancy went from 1 in 1000 for the general population to 1 in 100.  1% was something I could accept.

As we sat there in the doctor's office I thought we would get the same information as before.  That didn't happen.  The placenta was a mess.  My chronic hypertension, which up until the end had been well controlled, screwed up everything.  The placenta was a quarter of the size it should have been and the vessels were severely damaged.

So what does that mean percentage-wise?  The doctor said he didn't know exactly and would be referring us to a specialist but best-case 30% chance of recurrence.  Not 1%; 30%.  That's a helluva gamble.

I'm scared.  I want a baby.  Right now I want the baby I had--I want Frank--but I know that someday I want to try for a healthy little brother or sister for him.  I want to nurse my baby; not just have painfully swollen breasts and another baby to bury.  And I don't want to become so detached from a pregnancy, a baby, for fear of that 30%.

I want to be a good mommy and that might mean being Frank's mom and no other baby's mom.