This is such a bittersweet day. I loved this house. I was so excited to share it, to share my whole world with you. You would have been four months old tomorrow. You died four months ago today.
I don’t know why I’m surprised when I cry out of nowhere. Maybe I feel disloyal for having good days?
I’ve never been very worried about the things most people consider dangerous. I’ve deployed to war zones; I’ve gone scuba diving; I’ve shot handguns, rifles, bow and arrow.
My head knows I did everything I thought was right, but my heart will always wonder. Why didn’t I want to know more?
I am thankful for new connections. I am thankful to remember that all you ever knew was love.
So many people talk about God’s plan, say that they are comforted because their child is with God, because their loss must be part of some greater meaning. It just feels like a cop out to me.
I live with this anger, this endless rage. I lay still in yoga, but all the time I want to scream.
We talk a lot about blame. Everyone says it’s not my fault. Does it really matter? Are you any less gone?
Someone asked if I was “better” today. I don’t think she meant it to be hurtful, but I can’t fathom what she means.
One year ago yesterday I drove to the doctor’s office — nervous, excited, and full of such hope. I never expected you to happen so quickly, but I was ready. You were my dream.
I thought I knew everything. I knew nothing at all.
The doctor had to leave. She said she would be back, but after she left, I decided I couldn’t wait. I asked if the midwife was available. I don’t think she was supposed to be on until noon, but they called her, and she came.
I’m not living, without you. My body eats and drinks and works and sleeps. I visit with it sometimes. Sometimes I visit with you. Sometimes I feel you in my arms. Sometimes I see you in visions, memories.
I felt the water rushing out of me. I noticed with such a detached feeling that it was almost like peeing, except I had no control. Then I looked down, and saw that it was all blood. My first thought was this was proof something was wrong with me. My second was that maybe I was dying.
I was supposed to start work next week. I was supposed to be home, snuggling a tiny child. I was supposed to have a life different than the one I float through now.
There’s a place apart from suicide. A place where you don’t think to cause yourself harm, but neither do you have reason to live.
I don’t know how long you were struggling. I felt your movements, I thought you were excited. I thought you were getting ready to come. I wish I had known. I wish I had saved you.
I packed some of your things yesterday. It’s a little like saying goodbye. I will never be ready to lose you entirely.
Life is coming back to me. I hate it, it makes me feel disloyal to you. I hate feeling my mind engage, hate losing my focus on everything about you.
My worst regret is drinking half a can of Red Bull on those mornings I struggled to get out of bed. In that reality, I know it’s not my fault. I loved you more than life itself.
People ask if I’m suicidal, but I don’t think anyone really wants to know the truth. I think about it every day. I look out the door of our cabin and think how easy it would be. I could just jump. It scares me. I don’t think I want to die, but neither do I want to live.
I don’t know what I could have done differently. You were the very best part of me. And now I’m just empty.
I don’t sleep normally. I’m tired all day, but I have trouble at night. I often forget what day it is.
I’m home now, and it’s like you’re gone all over again. The tears rise up, they cover me. I am made of water. It rains.
It’s not normal yet. I told March it all feels like a dream, like something that just didn’t happen. I struggle to remember I was pregnant at all.
I say your name. That part is easy. I will forever love the sound of your name, the feel of it in my voice. What I can’t say is what happened to you.
I was afraid to kiss you, when they first brought you to me. I was afraid they would think I was strange.
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