Getting It

I had kind of a revelation lately. Perhaps it would better be described as a crystallization of thoughts. I finally feel like I understand why your Daddy didn't want to see you when you were born, and still doesn't want to see the pictures.

He was always up front. He didn't want to see. We made absolutely certain his wishes were clear and respected. When you were born, he was standing next to my head, holding my hand and looking into my eyes with total intensity. There was a drape over my knees to block the view. Your grandmothers went with the nurses that took you away and not long after your Daddy left so that I could hold you and see you. For those few hours (and only for those hours) we were apart, while I held you and kissed you and memorized your tiny, perfect face.

After, I never pushed him to see the pictures we took. I told him that I was sad that he didn't want to see and that I would be pleased if he ever changed his mind, but I did my best to accept it and let him grieve in his way.

But it did hurt. It hurt because in this whole world of people only we were your parents. No one else shared you the way we did. We loved each other so much we had to make you to hold some of it--and it hurt, knowing that he couldn't, wouldn't even look at you. That he didn't ache for you the way I did, that he didn't really feel that he'd lost a son the way I did. I sort of intellectually knew that he couldn't feel as much for you as I did because, to him, you were a few blurry, grainy images, a bulge in my middle that moved a little under his hand, some wishes and half-formed plans, and me being a total bitch to him for three months straight while whining that I was nauseous.

Of course he loved you. Of course he wanted you. Of course he lost when you died. None of that is really in question. But in my heart it was. Name a way to feel about his choice and I felt it, intensely, at least once. Anger that he wouldn't acknowledge you the way I wished he would. Frustration that I can't have a picture of you out in our house. Pride that he knows himself well enough that he can look out for his needs. Gratitude for his calm and steady presence as I clung to him in the middle of my hurricane. Pity that he had never smelled your scent, or seen for himself that your foot was his in perfect miniature, or seen the dark rose color of your lips.

But the one thing I never really felt was understanding. I didn't really get why he didn't, even though I thought I knew. It was talking to a guy friend about his wife's pregnancies. He was talking about the moment he really felt connected to his kids; really felt like a dad, felt that amazing, overpowering tie. It was the first moment they made eye contact. He said he loved them and dreamed about them and was excited for them, but he still didn't really feel like he was a father. Not until he met them. And somehow that supplied a kind of missing piece.

For me, holding you brought tremendous relief. For that little cocoon of time I just marveled at this tiny being I had created. Like any mother. I reveled in those short hours between when I could only see you in my imagination and when you'd exist only in my memory. They were what reward and joy and validation I could gather to try and salve my shattered heart. The only flaw in those moments of peace was that your Daddy wasn't sharing them with me.

But I finally understand that, even had he been right there with us, he wouldn't have shared that with me. For him, it would have been a sudden flood of the magnitude of that loss. Suddenly, instead of being profoundly disappointed he would have become a fully grieving father. There would have been no surcease, only ghastly, indescribable pain. The same pain that holding you eased for me. He withheld himself from meeting you not so that he could deny that he was grieving for a lost child, but so that he would not have lost a child.

And I am glad. Because he certainly did not escape feeling pain and grief. But it wasn't as much for you as it was for me; for my pain, for the loss of the life we thought we were going to have. The awful helplessness of watching me through that hell. But because he wasn't walking beside me he could be my shelter. He could provide for me, everything from making sure the bills were paid to making sure I ate occasionally. He could give himself completely when he held me and listened to the constant variances of why did this happen, instead of being so wrapped in his own grief that he had nothing to give.

He could not be a broken, grieving father to you, as I sometimes in my anguish wished he was. What he could be was a strong, loving and supportive husband. And that's an important part of being a father too. I trust him more deeply because of how much he was there for me. I knew he meant it when he said "for better or worse," because he'd already done both.

Dead Baby Cooties

I've been having a crying jag today. They don't happen very often anymore. Weeks at a time can go by, and they usually go as fast as they come. At least I had some warning this one was coming. The last big cry was when I showed Daddy the movie An American Tale. At the end, (and yes, Mommy is going to spoil the ending because you're a smart boy and you would figure it out in seconds) when the family is reunited, and they're hugging and crying and Mama Mousekewitz says "Oh my little boy, back from the dead?" Yeah. I kind of lost it. It was over in less than a minute, and then I felt like I'd been in a hit-and-run accident. I actually said "What the hell just happened to me?" to Daddy.

This one was gradual. I had a frustrating day at work--nothing important really, just stupid social stuff that I don't understand. A coworker shooting vile looks at me and snapping at me. She and another gossiping away and doing that kind of over-the-shoulder glances and smirks in my direction. No idea why, but most of the time the social situation there is pretty high-schoolish. And I was feeling irritated about that, because really? We just make coffee, there's no need for this absurd game-playing. And I was thinking about how, when one of them was pregnant (the one who has a baby 2 months younger than you would be) they were all extra-kind to her, going out of their way to ask how she was, etc. I didn't get included in a lot of that, but I shrugged it off as best I could. I'm not popular there, and I don't particularly care most of the time. Besides, she was much sicker than I was.

Now it's extremely awkward with most of them if I make reference to the new pregnancy. I know part of that is because I didn't act all excited when I told them--largely because I was vomiting constantly and generally would say outright "I'll be very excited when I stop barfing." And probably part of it is because I'm not as excited as they think I "should" be. Losing a baby (technically, two) kind of does that--I am cautious. And I don't even know if I can put on a carefree oh-boy-new-baby optimism, nor do I think I should just so that they approve of how I feel about my own fucking children.

I'm rambling about work. I hate it when I do that. But it was really bothering me (as it regularly does). And then said coworker came in, baby in tow, to pick something up. And brought the baby around back, where she was handed around gleefully. I have never felt more unwelcome in a circle. Not only did I not get a chance to hold the baby, if I came near her everyone got tense and weird about it. And when I cooed at her, there was a lot of "oh, you're scaring her, she's going to cry" going on. Because apparently I coo like pure evil. And the baby was whisked away immediately, lest I inflict my DeadBabyCooties all over her, I assume.

I know how bitter I sound. I am bitter. There is a lot of bad blood that I simply don't acknowledge. Because I'm "just here to work" and "do the job as best I can" and never, ever take part in the backstabbing bitchiness that's there. And it hurts to see that baby--see her living and thriving and being cooed over and fussed about and so on and so forth, when I can't even show a picture of you because people think it's "morbid" and "creepy." Their words, mind you. Not that I was offering to show them. Yes, and it was "crazy" that we had a memorial service for you.

Certainly, no one would have considered that about the least pleasant experience to be treated as if I were some kind of leper about the whole thing. Maybe I ought to sew a scarlet letter on my stupid apron. Warn the innocent, that sort of thing.

Anyway. I got home feeling in a funk about the whole thing, and eventually I just put on my Must Cry Now playlist and let it happen. It feels a little better now. I haven't been able to cry like that since I got pregnant again; every time I started to really cry I'd get nauseous and throw up. At least with the meds I can have this release.

I had meant to sit down and write about the back-and-forth feelings I've been having about this new baby and about you, but I guess that isn't really what I wanted to write about after all. I'm sure that will come in time. For now I think I better take my next dose of NoPukePills and have a snack.

Easter

I really miss you today. We don't really celebrate Easter much, but we probably would have if you were here. Instead I'm nauseous and tired and impatient.

I have been sort of curling in on myself these few weeks. I just can't seem to manage being social and talkative. I'm fine with your Daddy, but otherwise I just tend to be more quiet than anyone would expect of me. I'm not writing much either. It just drains me so much to keep up the energy at work I just don't have any left for home right now.

Blinded me with Science

Today was difficult. The other girl at work who was pregnant while I was carrying you had her baby this morning. And since I was on the register, I was the one taking all the congratulations for her.

I had no idea how stressful that would be. I thought it would hurt--and it did--but mostly I felt like an overcoiled spring. I worked through it; no one noticed, and only one person thought to ask if I was okay. I told her that, as far as everyone knows, I'm fine. She understood.

I've been agitated and tense all afternoon. I wound up sort of tormenting myself by looking up pictures of people with ectrodactyly. I didn't see anyone affected exactly like you, but I saw several who were just as bad, and at least one that was worse. That was somewhat reassuring, but I'm not sure how to explain why. I guess because all of the doctors we've talked to so far have said that you were about as severely affected as you can be by this. And science makes me feel safer. It isn't like I can control this defect, but at least I can understand it.

And, for the first time, I'm starting to see how it has affected me. And when I look at the pieces, it seems obvious that I have the gene. The only thing we know for sure is that the bottoms of my tibia and fibula aren't perfectly formed. I found this out when I was about sixteen and went in for an X-ray of my ankle. No one ever really said anything about it. When I was young, I used to walk on the outsides of my feet, and to this day I'm a little pigeon-toed if I'm not paying attention. But my feet don't just point in, they roll under slightly when I relax. Sometimes I almost fall because my foot starts to roll under me mid-step. I always chalked it up to bad ankles. I guess that's true, but this isn't at all what I meant. My fingernails are brittle and peely no matter what I do to them.

Such inconsequential things, but when put together, it's so clearly the same defect--just so incredibly mild compared to everyone else. But that makes it more concrete. And I can deal with concrete. It's the abstract that boggles me.

Looking at the pictures (and reading several different articles and abstracts) was also painful. It shows me how very many ways this could hurt your future brother or sister. Even the milder versions can be so awful. And even if your brother or sister is as mildly affected as I am, he or she will still have to worry about it hurting their child.

We haven't heard anything from the genetic counselor since October. Your daddy is pretty mad about this. I'm not too happy myself. Last time she called, she said that they were not able to find whatever part of the chromosome they were looking for, so they won't be able to test the next baby. So we'll be back to watching the ultrasounds. Because I'm not phobic of ultrasounds at this point. Ho no, not me. At least this time we'll be going to specialists. And looking early.

I still cannot fucking believe that neither the doctor nor the ultrasound tech noticed that you were missing both arms and your leg was so deformed. Looking back at the ultrasound, it's not actually unclear. And when we saw the one at the hospital--that worst one--it was clear and easy to see--and you hadn't moved at all. And you weren't that much bigger--granted, there's a big difference in what can be seen between 19 weeks and 24 weeks, but it doesn't make much difference in the bones that we are looking at.

I guess I'm angry. It sort of surprises me; I haven't really felt all that much anger. But I'm angry now. Angry at the defect, angry at the doctors who told me I couldn't possibly have it when I did, angry at the counselor both for being the bearer of bad news and for the extended silence, angry at the doctors who didn't spot this.

I'm angry they didn't spot it at 19 weeks, but I'm glad they missed it. Because we had that much more time with you. Time when your Daddy got to feel you kick. Time that we got that special fourth of July. But that it was ultimately a good thing doesn't change the fact that they missed something pretty fucking glaring--and all the while, we were specifically asking them to look. We told them we want to count the fingers and the toes. All she was really interested in was getting a better view of your gender.

I left a message for the G.C. today, and I'm going to call again tomorrow...and the next day. I want an appointment; I want things explained to us. We've already gone through an entire miscarriage and haven't heard a peep. We're actively trying to concieve, and nothing. And I told her we were trying when I talked to her last. You know, that last time, when she said she'd call me within the week?

Anne of Green Gables was right; a few italics really can relieve one's feelings.

Another day

So much for being funnier, I guess. Today I just feel lousy. It doesn't help that I have a cold, and this is one of those weeks where I don't get a day off. I'm feeling bitter and dark and resentful about everything at the moment--just irritable and grumpy and down. I've been having all sorts of unpleasant thoughts. For example, I've been feeling like the only thing about you that you got from me is your lower lip and your birth defects.

Another month has past, and again we are trying to make you a big brother. I wonder if you will matter as much to your sibling as my brother Frank who died at your age did to me. I used to pretend he was my guardian angel, and had long, involved conversations with him in my journal. But then, I was a very lonely child, and your Uncle C. (who has the same defect you and I do) was pretty heavily favored by my father and his mother. We're only planning on one more baby, and I dearly hope he or she won't be as lonely and isolated as I tended to be. But at the same time, I want you to be a part of that child's life.

I wish I could either cry or get back to my usual noisy, wisecracking self. I feel sometimes like I'm two different people--there's me, and then there's me-the-deadbabymama. The grief and pain feel alien. Probably because I've never before lost something or someone where the pain and grief didn't spend itself in a few months. You've been gone almost six months, and most of the time I feel like my normal self. And then I see a baby and the pain comes back.

It's lonely, this sporadic grieving. I don't feel much like talking about it to most people, because it's just the same old grief--and most people assume (correctly) that I'm fine. The people who know that I'm not always "fine" are still more than willing to listen during my episodes of sadness, but I find they generally only come when I'm alone--and then, I don't want to talk much. Even write much. Which is why my updates here are equally sporadic.

I don't know.

A different kind of New Years resolution

I haven't written much lately. I've tried to get caught up in the Christmas spirit, but this year no one really seemed to feel it. Myself included. We all wanted to just get it over with. Everyone was happy to see each other, but we all spoke of our relief that the season was ending.

Part of it is not having you here, at least for your Daddy and me. It's hard, with so many new and about-to-be-here babies in our life, not having you here to share in it. This should have been your first Christmas, and I couldn't seem to care without you. I think your Grandmas felt that too.

I don't really know what to say. It's hard sometimes, when I sit down to write to you, to put the swirling collective cloud of lovejoygratitudesorrowlonlinessfrustrationgriefwonder thoughts into words and sentences. I can't make linear statements about these completely nonliniar thoughts, and I can't make them make sense, because most of them, considered, don't.

I think about you often in whatever place you are. I often think about you playing with other children who have gone before you--particularly with Layla. Less often I think of you with your great-grandparents, and with my own brother who died at about the same age you did. Sometimes I think of you as what age you would be now. Other times I think of you as an older child, even as an adult. And sometimes I imagine you as a being so much wiser and more conscious than myself, now that you aren't limited by these pods of electricity and raw meat.

Sometimes I feel like you are near me; some little spiritual nudge, a drawing of my attention to some small thing--sometimes helpful, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. You make me see the patterns in the frost, the shape of the bare white trees against the dark firs in the woods, the moonlight reflecting off of waves. And I see something small and perfect and beautiful like that, and part of my heart says that's Isaac. Brief and beautiful and perfect. I can carry the moonlight on the crashing waves on Christmas Eve in my heart the same way I carry the indescribable shade of red your tiny lips were.

I find myself confused by my own writing here. Why the serious tone? Why are these letters--this blog--not funny? Why can I be my dark, funny self here? I'm thoughtful and reflective outside of this, of course. But the biggest thing in our life is laughter. Your very name means laughter. And the people closest to us, to you, are the very same people I can make pitch black deadbaby jokes to. Even alone, I make jokes. Constantly. Out loud. (You might have noticed this, actually).

I guess this post (which, originally, was going to be me saying that every time I watch Mythbusters, I have the random intrusive thought that Kari and I were pregnant at the same time and her baby is alive and mine isn't) has winnowed itself down to a New Year's resolution to be more relaxed and funny here.

Perhaps it is a different phase of my grief; the part where I don't just talk about the deep, quiet, solemn parts about your life, or the wistful memories of it. Perhaps now is when I write fewer "letters" and more "blog posts." Perhaps it is time to speak not just to you, but openly to those who are reading this.

Hello, world.

It's a start.

I want my baby now

Sometimes missing you is almost more than I can stand. Today was one of those days. I had to work, so of course I had my perky groove on. But I wasn't really there. I was distracted and clumsy, and on every break I would sit in my car, unable to cry, rocking back and forth and whimpering to myself.

I want my baby now.

I want my son.

Really, jokes over. I want my son back now.

I can't stand this. I want my baby back!

I wish I had something more eloquent or interesting to say. But I don't.

Just another day

I've been missing you a lot this week. Part of it is the miscarriage. I don't really feel right saying "your brother or sister" about it anymore, because really, I don't feel like I lost another baby. There wasn't a person there. Not like with you. You had so much personality even in that short time we were together. You liked riding in the car--you'd always bounce around, especially if I sang along with the radio. You hated being poked and prodded. You'd always kick indignantly when somebody poked at you. It was a good thing, too--because Daddy and Grandma P got to feel you kick from the outside before you were gone. You would get very quiet if I played music just for you--as soon as the headphones hit my belly, you would stop whatever you were doing.

I wish you were here now. Most of my friends have (or, if all goes well, are about to have) beautiful, healthy babies. And here I sit, smoking in the house and watching a movie. Your room is full of things we don't have a place for. All the little clothes we bought for you are packed away in a box, along with all my maternity clothes.

I just want you here now. I want to know the boy you should have been. I want to show you off at holiday parties. I want to see you smile, to hear you're gurgly little laugh. I want to kiss your belly and dance you around the room. I want to curl in my safe little corner of the couch with you tucked safely in my arms.

I want you in my life. Not in my memory.

Swine Flu

Mommy and Daddy got swine flu.

That? Sucked. It's the first thing I'm not sorry you missed. It feels like being the butt of a cosmic joke, because we were exposed to the virus over the weekend of your memorial. That stings. Especially since I got the H1N1 vaccination two weeks before that--shortlisted because I was listed as pregnant. Didn't do me much good, unless it made the sickness milder.

It was rather nice having such an extended period of time off (five days, two workdays after taking six days). But that has sting in it too; I should be on maternity leave. Generally speaking, I like my job--at times I even love it. But the holidays are rough at work, and I was so excited that I could spend an entire holiday season--my favorite time of the year--free of work.

But instead I just got home from the holiday meeting. I'm worried that I won't get enough sleep before I go back tomorrow. And several people are irritated with me that I completely messed up the schedule for everyone else by missing work. Right now, everything feels unfair.

I miss you.

Today

You should be here today.

I should be inside, keeping the house warmer than it probably needs to be. I should be crying because I still can't get you to latch on right, and carefully sitting on a doughnut pillow, trying not to worry about the couch. Your Daddy should be holding you with more confidence today. He should be looking at you with that adoring gaze that, until now, only I've gotten. He should be laughing at my mother, who would be fretting over exactly how many diapers she should change to be a perfect help without stepping on our toes. Our mothers should be telling stories about when we were babies and we should be making phone calls and facebook updates with pictures of our brand new son. We should be laughing and crying and most of all rejoicing in this little boy we all wanted so badly and loved so very much.

We should be.

But that's not what happened today. Today your Daddy woke me up to help him find a shirt to wear to work. Today he's supposed to call the genetic counselor for an update on all the testing they're doing on the bits of you and me they have. Today I got up and was out of instant coffee and milk, so pulled the bottle of diet pepsi your Daddy bought by accident to caffeinate myself. Today I bundled up in my warm fleece pajamas, in thick slippers and a hat, to sit shivering in the garage with my laptop so I can smoke at the same time I type. Today I will watch movies and do laundry, eat leftover pizza, and work on your baby book. Today I will smoke at least a pack of cigarettes.

There isn't anything wrong with the today I have. But it is so far removed from the today I want that it boggles my mind. Today my belly should be empty, but not my arms. Today I should hurt, but in my body not my heart. Today I should make milk, but it should be to feed you. Today I should cry, but they should be tears of joy.

Milk for Ashes

My body is still making milk for you.

It blows my mind. You died more than three months ago. And I've made milk for you every day since you were born. Not much; not more than a few drops each day.

I'm glad. I actually check almost every day to see if it's still coming. It feels like the only tie I have to you--the only proof you were real. It reminds me that it's okay that I'm still sad. If my body hasn't gotten over you yet, maybe it's okay that my heart hasn't. My body is just crying with me...but it's tears are white.

I wish

I wish I could hold you one more time. I remember so clearly how your little head fit into my hand. I wish I had held you longer. I wish I had kissed you more. I wish I could be in that moment where the world stood still and it was just you and me. It was only a few minutes, but it was ours.

Today I printed out all the pictures I have of you to put in your baby book. I've spent all day looking at all the pictures of you--picking which ones I want in your album, scanning in the ultrasound so I can keep them on better-quality paper. They're spread out in what would have been your room.

Looking at them makes me miss you more. I wish your life wasn't summed up in a handful of 4x6's. I wish I had more to hold than an empty blanket. I wish you were kicking inside of me, counting down the days until you came.

I wish.

Planning your memorial is so hard. Your daddy and I just can't seem to pull it all together. There aren't many guests coming, and we know no one is expecting anything of us. But nothing feels quite right. And so many odd little obstacles keep cropping up. Enough money, enough time...and we're both just dragging our feet over everything. Can't get the rocket ordered, don't have time to build it. Can't get the pictures printed, don't have the energy to put your scrapbook together. Can't even really talk it out because it's too hard to manage.

These weeks, what would have been the last few before you were born, are grueling. Both of us have little fits and spurts of energy that's almost manic; both of us are expending crazy amounts of energy at work--Daddy, because he has a new and very busy job, and me because when I step into work I step into this beaming, welcoming, witty, charming shell that takes almost all I have to keep up, and that sometimes takes hours of private weeping to recover from.

At home we tend to look at the house, which so often lately is messy and feels out of control. I think we both feel out of control right now. We're both drinking too much, letting too much stuff (from paperwork to garbage bags) pile up, and everything feels overwhelming.

I think your daddy is feeling it lately too. I don't think it's just that he comes home and finds me with tears in my eyes. I think a lot of it is planning this. When we took out your ashes to figure out how much there was, he noticed the little metal disc that came with them. He took it; put it on his keychain and I've seen him touching it. His eyes are as sad as mine.

We both miss you, and we miss each other too. We're still so very close, and we still take care of each other. But it feels like the parts of us that went with you ache. And so often it just feels like neither of us can cope. So we do our best, day by day, giving each other slack and holding each other up, holding on for whatever is coming next.

We miss you, Isaac. We miss you so much.

Two Months

Two months ago today you died. Two months ago tomorrow you were born. These are facts I can never quite reconcile.

All day long there's been a thrumming undercurrent. Two months. Two months. Its been so little time, but it feels like a hundred years ago. It feels like you never were. It feels like you still are. I feel outside myself.

I almost never admit how hard every minute is. Even to myself. I'm often tired, and life itself almost takes more effort than I'm able to put out. But I keep doing it. The house doesn't get too disasterous. I show up clean and bright and smiling every day at work. I laugh at movies with your daddy. I look fine on the surface. Underneath it there's darkness and strain and I can't quite reach it--nor can I quite ignore it.

Two months. How can it have been so very recently that I held you? How can you have been gone this long?

Workdays

Going to work is harder with you gone. For so many reasons. Surprisingly, dealing with customers doesn't make it worse--even when I have to explain what happened. That's healing in it's way; not talking about you is harder.

Its the little things I miss. Not just your movements inside me, not just having a reason to sing under my breath when I'm working. Sometimes it feels like there's no light at the end of the tunnel. I don't hate my job, but I was ready to take a nice long break while I got to know you. Now there will be at least ten months--probably more--before that kind of break is coming again. And you won't come with it.

Things just seem pointless some days. My life's work--smiling sweetly and serving coffee. My life has meaning, but my job doesn't. And without you, I question even that much.

I try to just get through it. It's not so bad, my job. My life. But it's so much emptier now. I ache inside and out. I miss you so much.

Still Without Words

I haven't been able to write. I can't find words these last few days. I wanted to post happy memories of my pregnancy, inspired to do so by a post on a support board. I still want to write about your birth. I want to write so much but none of the words will come. No words today, no tears either; even going to my Make-Me-Cry playlist hasn't eased this. I hurt, but mostly I just feel tired and anxious.

I miss you so much. Sometimes I'm so shocked that you're never coming back, that I'm never going to hold you again. Other times it seems like you were never here at all. I miss your little kicks. I miss wishing I could have a drink or a cigarette. I miss fretting because you were having a quiet day. I miss how your daddy would sleep with his hand curled around the roundness that was you. I miss how you'd kick him in the back while I was trying to sleep. I even miss being so achingly tired at work that I thought I'd never survive the shift--it's easier to be there now, but so much lonelier.

Your daddy and I are already talking about "trying again." But sometimes I feel like that's disloyal to you. Especially on those days when I feel like you never really were here. Those are bad days. I'm afraid you'll think we didn't really love you; that you weren't the epicenter of our universe. That you didn't matter. That you don't matter. Because you do. Oh, you do--there isn't a moment I'm not thinking of you and missing you. You are and always will be my son, my first child. My beloved.

Ashes

I got a letter today. A bland, unemotional letter from the hospital, that blandly, unemotionally told me that your ashes are ready to be picked up. I didn't see it coming; somebody told me that I'd get a phone call when I could bring you home. I made up a story about how it would be; it would probably come while I was at work and that would suck and would I need to go home etc. etc. etc. I never expected some cold printout.

I expected a bill. I opened it up and the words hit me with such force that I fell to the floor and sobbed. I can't remember the last time pain took the legs out from under me. The bruises on my knees are still fresh. I lay there on the floor and just wailed.

The strange thing is, I somehow knew it was happening this week. In the past few days I've had all sorts of intrusive, tormented thoughts about where your tiny body was. Stranger than that is that your daddy has been having the same thoughts all week. Somehow we knew.

I'm relieved and I'm sadder than ever. I'm glad you're coming home, that where you are is no longer a mystery. But now there's nothing but ashes, with a finality I did and didn't expect.

A Hard Day

Today is hard. It isn't any special day. I don't know why. I'm so angry, and so sad, and so very lonely.

I never had something so bad happen that couldn't be fixed. It isn't like I lived some charmed, pain-free life. Far from it. Lots of terrible, painful things have happened in my life. I've mourned, I've grieved, I've cried, I've learned...but all of it was something I could "get better" from. But you being gone--it's un-fixable.

Sometimes its like I'm pregnant with your memory--I can no more put you down and walk away from you than when you were safe inside me. I can't feel your kicks in my belly anymore; now you kick in my heart. You're here but you're gone and you're never coming back.

I'm trying to clean the bedroom today--I need to put away the maternity clothes, but I can't bring myself to. The sight of them brings pain, but the thought of folding them up and putting them away doesn't feel right either. I hate almost all my clothes--I don't really fit in anything. I've gained more weight in my pain than when I was carrying you. I'm eating like a defiant child, not really caring what goes into my body. If I'm not nourishing you it's like I can't see a reason to nourish me. Don't have much more appetite than when you were here, but sometimes I find myself eating to fill the void. I feel ugly and fat in everything--and in mortal terror that someone will think I'm still pregnant.

I can't seem to move in any direction right now. I feel guilty for sitting in my pain, listening to music that makes me cry, brings the dull gnawing ache to a clarity, in hopes that this too shall pass. But sometimes I feel guilty when I'm not sad; I question my own happiness when it comes, doubt my own peace when I find it.

I am more aware of magic because of you. A bird landing in a tree, a deer seen unexpected in someone's yard, rainbows, snow in the springtime, beautiful clouds; when you were still here, I saw them and thought they were miracles just like you. Now that you're gone, you're in every beautiful thing I see. Often it's a comfort, but there are moments that I cry that you'll never see them. Never point out something mundane with your child's wonder, never squeal with joy at the sight of a soap bubble, never chase a butterfly. The list of things you won't do aches.

And I'm so angry. I want you back. I want the innocent faith that nothing truly bad could happen to us. I don't want to be grateful sometimes. I want to scream, to yell and swear. Why couldn't we be normal? Why did there have to be some genetic specter lying in wait? Why does it still have to be there, threatening any siblings you might someday have? Why does something so normal as having a baby have to rest on the edge of a coin toss?

Sometimes I feel like there's some greater plan at work.

Sometimes I want to kick the shit out of whoever planned it.

Make It Go Away

I had to make myself cry. The numbness was so complete, so aching that I had to do something to bring that pain forward. I listened to one of the songs I've been trying to avoid and cried so hard I was almost afraid neighbors, strangers walking down the street would hear. It hurt, oh god it hurt, but it hurt with a kind of purity I needed. I needed the tears, needed the choking sobs, needed the near-screaming. It's the same almost-scream in my heart most of the time, sometimes receding to a dull ache, sometimes even almost silent.
But always there. Always.

In The Night

I can't sleep tonight. I've been lying in bed for two hours, staring at the television but not actually watching it, listening to your father sleeping peacefully beside me. My loneliness is the only thing awake aside from me. Took a sleeping pill a minute ago, and I'm hoping that might help.

Now that I'm home again the pain is back; the visit to the hotel was like a step out of time. An eye in this hurricane of agony I've been living in. Now I'm home--there's a pile of dishes that I'll need to wash tomorrow, and a to-do list that will need attention. The mundanity of life, back at home; your Daddy going back to work in the morning. The emptiness in my heart was waiting too.

I felt like you were so close when we were at the beach; almost like you were inside me again. In my heart and my soul, but not in my belly anymore. Coming home used to feel so good--curling here in my little safe nest on the couch. I used to balance this computer against the roundness that was you, feeling your little kicks as I typed.

My body has almost healed, but not my heart. Not my soul. The moments just stretch on, a lifetime ahead of me without you. I could, I have cried an ocean of tears, but it doesn't release the pain.