I’m having a hard time.
I know that this will not come as a shock to anyone but me, but I think that I really believed that the knowledge that we spared Ezra pain was going to somehow be protective, that I would feel soothed by the idea that we did the right thing. That I would find peace in this right away.
I hope that I will feel that way one day, I sense that I will, but right now, I feel anger and despair. I know that my baby wouldn’t have lived no matter what we did. I know that a take-home baby was never on the table. But it’s not fair. It’s just so unfair – he should have been healthy. I took vitamins and ate vegetables and didn’t drink or eat sushi, I watched my sugar and stayed hydrated and went to my appointments, and it didn’t matter. My son should have been healthy and he wasn’t.
And I’m not usually given to self pity, but, oh, it’s there. I feel the weight of it, of my grief, settling over me like a wet woolen blanket. My hormones are crashing around me and my arms ache and I want my baby. I’m taking deep breaths and trying to master the next hour, the rest of the afternoon, while milk drips uselessly from breasts that are swollen and painful, producing food that my son will never eat. I obsessively read forums made up of sad women desperate to stop their milk, stocking up on cabbage leaves and sage. The size and weight and shape of the bag of frozen peas I hold to my breast breaks my heart and I have to resist the urge to cuddle it close, wrapped in its checkered tea towel. And today is my birthday, and I should be excited about our growing baby. We should be celebrating instead of grieving.
I’m holding on. I remind myself over and over that plowing through some more time is about all we can do. It makes me feel so helpless, to be unable to make this better for Lauren, to be unable to comfort myself, but there has been so much kindness shown to us over the last week and we are surrounded with so much love. I’m clutching to the idea that time must heal, because it just must. It has to.