Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Six months.

Six months ago, April 15th my baby died; my life changed; my family's life changed. Six months ago I still didn't know if the baby I was already grieving was a boy or a girl. (I don't know if I'll ever completely forgive myself for not finding out gender--that one "exciting" decision kept me in mourning limbo for 3 days; I couldn't name my baby; I didn't know for whom I was longing.)

We now speak words we never dreamed, have pain we never imagined. My children relate to things in ways I never wanted. Yesterday. in response to "I love you, my sweet baby" Noah said, "I'm not your baby, Mama, your baby died."

I suppose it's good that this kind of language feels natural and not scary to him, but I feel a mother's deep sadness every time I'm reminded of their strange grief.

This is the time that is supposed to be hardest. The sixth month mark. Half a year. It was one year ago that I got that first faint-faint positive on the pregnancy test. One year ago that I told a friend the nervous-making secret.

I had a dream last week that I was pregnant. I spent half the next day feeling ill and overwhelmed, trying to get my body to understand that it was just a dream. I was a nervous wreck nearly all day because of a dream.

I still can't hold the little babies at church. It makes me ache. It makes me feel selfish and self-indulgent in all the worst ways.

Our lives would be so very different if our baby had lived. One of the most guilt-inducing things about this loss is when I think "wow! I would never have been able to do THIS with a baby". But for every one of those moments there are 10 moments of longing and wishful thinking.

Midnight. No movement.
Lying next to Noah.
Still no sleep there.
An incision.
Still, the numbness.

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