I remember that last visit to the midwife. You were 39 weeks and 6 days. I sat on the table, holding my enormous belly, and I told her I was ready, that everything was ready for you to come, but I was content to wait.
my love/hate relationship with Facebook
I hate talking about these memories, because everyone is quick to tell me that it wasn’t my fault. Screw that! I don’t care about fault. I want to share my story. I want to remember the last week of my son’s life. I want to share these things that complicate how I feel about his death. I want to remember that this experience wasn’t entirely sunshine and roses. I want to remember what was real.