I looked at the calendar the other day and almost cried. His birthday is so close. I’m full of remembering.
And it still feels funny, I guess—I’ve never been the counting type. But this month is a memory. I’m living inside it.
One year ago, I was nine months pregnant. One year ago, I was complaining about backaches and being constantly hungry. One year ago, I was putting the final touches on the nursery.
I don’t think too much about actual dates, and so I missed the anniversary of my 39th week. And this is important to me, because it’s the date my providers had pushed for induction. And I wonder—if I had chosen differently, would I have a living child?
These questions are important to me. It doesn’t matter that it’s “not my fault”. Fault means little in the grand scheme. My son is still dead. He’s still missing from me.
One year ago, I was happy and naïve and full of something more than hope. One year ago, I lived life with certainty.
I live in this world, but these dates feel like memories. They are memories I’m missing.
I miss my son.
Adrian James Hernandez was stillborn on 30 June 2017.
It’s the only certainty left in my world.
Related Posts:
Miranda’s Blog: Equidistance
Miranda’s Blog: 21 June 2018, 4:58pm
Miranda’s Blog: 22 June 2018, 9:01am
Miranda’s Blog: 28 June 2018, 8:55pm
Miranda’s Story: 29 June 2017
Miranda’s Blog: 11 July 2018
Write Your Grief: No
Write Your Grief: That Day
