There is a new post bubbling up inside me, but whenever I go to write it, nothing comes. My thoughts are a blur; too many, too jumbled. How I sneak into her memory box to look at her photos because I’m afraid I will forget her face. Am already forgetting her face. How it really feels like sneaking, like opening the box is something not allowed. How I’m scared that if we try again I’ll be sad if it’s a boy, because I was promised a daughter. How I’m scared that if we try again and it’s a girl, I’ll confuse the two children. How I’m scared to try again, because what if the second child dies too. Or what if something happens to me. How I feel closer to normal than I have in a while, and how that scares me too, because maybe I shouldn’t feel normal yet. Or maybe people will forget. How I ordered a book from Amazon about pregnancy after a stillbirth or infant loss, and how apparently all of this is the most normal thing in the world to be feeling. How I hate that this has happened to enough people that there is a version of normal one can define for how to react. How I’m strangely, oddly fine, despite all of this turmoil.
I found another book on Amazon, a memoir written by a woman who’d had a stillborn baby in France. I clicked on “Look Inside,” and it was… funny. Poignant. Tragic. But funny. I went to Dan’s computer and told him I wanted him to read this excerpt, because it was funny. And he gave me that look, the one that says, why do you read this sad stuff, how can a story with a baby who dies be funny, I am only reading this to humor you.” And then he laughed, because … it’s funny. And oddly cathartic as a result.
“Lighter things will happen to you, birds will steal your husband’s sandwich on the beach, and your child will still be dead, and your husband’s shock will still be funny, and you will spend your life trying to resolve this. ” – Elizabeth McCracken, An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination