Your donor has brown eyes. So do I. I still wonder if yours would have been green or violet or newborn baby blue. I still wonder if I should have waited just one more moment longer–surely you were only sleeping?
I don’t find comfort in the thought of a higher power. It doesn’t do anything for me. But I do find comfort in the fact that other people have also been broken…and they survived it. Which brings me to Akhilandeshvari, goddess of never not being broken.
Death has never been my friend. The necessity of her existence is no more comfort than my own. I don’t hate her, but I look at her the way she looks at Disease. We are all harbingers. We all bring Pain.
I peeked under a bit. I wanted that smell. I wanted something stronger than the silence at his birth.
In the black-and-white photos, he looks like he’s sleeping. Photos are difficult; they don’t tell the whole story.
The choice inside suicide—Before my son died I thought suicide was cowardly, escapist. I now realize there is so much more inside this conversation. Choosing to live after my son’s death is one of the hardest choices I’ve ever had to make.
She was probably the most innocent person in the room. And that’s funny, I guess, because she was so incredibly book smart.
I used to think that grief was this sad time that followed the death of someone you loved. I never imagined it was really this new layer, this new identity. I never imagined the loss I was grieving would include the loss and rebirth of me.
Everything happens, but not for a reason—It is wrong to spread the idea that everything in this life is normal; that everything we experience is necessary; that everything is okay. Violence is not okay. Rape is not okay. A child’s death is never okay. Sometimes, (often!) there genuinely is no reason
One hundred years ago, many pregnancy interventions didn’t exist, and I let myself believe that was the best way. I didn’t consider the other side of this story—one hundred years ago, without interventions, mothers and children often died. Nature isn’t perfect. Nature is pretty deadly.
I fight against happiness. I think that if I let myself smile, I will lose sight of my grief. I will lose him. Again.
Today, I put on a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans. They are tight, and my body fills them differently, but they do fit. And this, surprisingly, is also hard for me—as hard as I worked to get here, as much as I thought wearing “normal” clothing would be a cure for at least part of what ails me, I also miss it. I miss being pregnant.
It’s become a trend these days to put quotes and proverbs on packaging, including tea bags. I used to find these captions comforting. I used to think I could handle anything with the right attitude. Now I often feel like these things miss the mark. Is it the proverb that is incomplete, or is it me?
I am a weed. They say I am strong, but I do not aim to be so. I don’t aim to be anything. I’m just here.
People said some (mostly unintentionally) hurtful and insensitive things after the death of my child. This is what I wish I’d said in response.
When a Type A personality grieves, at some point grief becomes her job. She finds old focus and determination. She reads books and attacks her grief with her previous energy.
Dear pregnant woman in my office – people are starting to get excited. They threw you a baby shower, and things are starting to feel very familiar. I wish I could explain why I’ve started to dislike you. I wish there were some logic beyond jealously and pain.
29 October 2017 is the day where I cleaned the last of my things from my house, I found the breast milk that expired before it made it to the bank.
I will forever love the sound of your name. #adrianjameshernandez
I saw your heart beat today. The doctor called it a “fluttering.” It was tiny; the books say you’re only about the size of a pea, but you have already changed my world.
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