I think I might be a terrible dead baby mom; I have no idea anymore how many weeks it’s been since Amy died. The date is of course etched forever in my brain, and I know three months is therefore July 3rd, but how many weeks is it? I don’t know. Does it matter?
I’m sad. How many times can I post that on this blog. I’m sad, I’m sad. You get it, I know. I’m sad. You got the memo. We all did. But I sit here, feeling so much and thinking of her and vividly remembering the few hours we all had together in that sad, sad delivery room, and all I can think to say is, I’m sad. There are no other words.
I asked Dan, how does he think of her, and not get so sad. And he tells me, that once you accept it, it’s just how it is, and that doesn’t seem as soul-crushing. I could not disagree more. I have accepted it. I know this is how it is. I don’t think it can be changed, I don’t bang my fists shouting about how the injustice of it all. I have become actually very adept at giving the short version of the story. Without crying. Without my voice breaking. As if I were telling any other story, something that wasn’t like the worst story ever told.
I have accepted it, but that doesn’t really help. I think of the actual birth. I remember when they handed her to me. I was so afraid, before, to hold her, to see her, of what it would be like and if she would even look like a baby, but after I delivered her, they handed her to me and I wasn’t afraid at all, I just wanted her. Loved her. I remember looking at her tiny, perfect little face and stroking her tiny, soft head, and remembering that, it’s soul-crushing. It’s sad on another level.
Today, the church near our house put up a Father’s Day message. “Children always look up to their fathers, no matter how tall they are.” We used to joke about how Dan would scare the baby because he is so, so tall, so I read this and immediately my mind flashed to the delivery room. To Dan holding our tiny, perfect daughter. He could hold her with one giant hand; her head and most of her torso fit in just his hand, and I watched him just staring at her, in awe, in sadness, in everything, and my heart broke over and over. And I could just see the top of her head over the receiving blanket, and I kept half-expecting her to move, until I finally had to stop looking, so great was my desire for things to be not at all what they were. Remembering that? Is soul-crushing. I don’t care how thoroughly you’ve accepted it. It’s the saddest thing in the whole.entire.world.
And so I saw the sign and thought of him holding her, and I’m crying, and I get home, and there’s a new flower blooming on her tree. I swear to god it wasn’t there this morning.