You know the expression, “you can run, but you can’t hide?” That’s especially true of dead babies. Fact: I was supposed to have a baby this week. Instead I have a baby who is more than 3 months deceased. This particular discrepancy kind of sucks, to put it mildly.
I went to Chicago for the long weekend to see some fabulous friends. We had an awesome time. I probably mentioned my dead baby slightly more than was appropriate but all things considered I did pretty well at being distracted and, you know, not depressed about it. And now I’ve been home for all of 7 hours and I’m totally depressed about it, again. Because in case I haven’t mentioned it 50 thousand times, on Thursday I am supposed to be having a baby and I’m supposed to be enjoying the unique combination of excitement and terror that comes with that, but instead I’ll just be going to work. Awesome.
I wonder if it is partly being at home, because at home it’s all memories and thoughts. Of our pregnancy, of our hopes for Amy, of her things or things that might have become hers. Our guest room was going to be her room; now we still have a guest room and isn’t that great except you know what would be more great? If we needed it to be our daughter’s room. I’ve read about people who lose their babies on vacation or in new places and how it ruined the entire city for them, like, the entire city of Boston is now a place they never, ever want to go ever again. It sounds a little crazy, but I kind of get it. Sometimes I just want to move. Buy a new house. Make new memories that aren’t so tinged with sadness. Sometimes I wonder if I can actually go back to the same hospital where we delivered Amy and actually be happily having a baby, despite my confidence that it is the best place to get care for my high-risk pregnancy and my baby if he/she/it happens to also show up early.
Like those women who hate entire cities, you know what I irrationally hate? Domino’s Pizza. Really. I have on several irrational, sobbing occasions accused them of being involved in losing Amy. The night before we ended up in the hospital, when I didn’t feel well, I ordered Domino’s so we wouldn’t have to worry about dinner. The e-mail said 35-45 minutes, and an hour and 15 minutes later it still wasn’t here. And the “Pizza Tracker” announced that it had been delivered and we were currently enjoying it. And I was starving and pregnant and didn’t feel well, and I was so, so angry, and finally after nearly two hours they brought us some shitty cold pizza. And then I went to bed and woke up in labor and my baby died, and now I won’t order Domino’s anymore, because they were “involved.” Dead babies make you act a little crazy, I guess, but who can really blame you?