It’s 6 months, today. I’ve been waiting for today since a few weeks ago, when I realized it had been nearly 6 months, and I remembered it nearly every day since. But then today came, and I was in a good mood, with a new sweater and a pretty easy day ahead of me and a ton accomplished yesterday, and I just realized the date, just now. Maybe that was her gift to me, today, to be simply content and not get so caught up in the date.
Six months. One month, exactly, longer than she existed within me. I still get sad. I think of her, and my thoughts aren’t even real thoughts so much as a jumble of imissyouiloveyouwhydidthishappencantbelieveyoullnevergrowupimissyou, and my eyes well up, and I think I might start to cry and never stop. And then, I don’t. I don’t know why. The moment passes, and it’s so sad, but the overwhelmingness of it – it’s just moments. Moments that pass.
Still, I am broken in ways, I guess. Someone recently sent me an e-mail announcing their pregnancy. What struck me was how she phrased it – “our bundle of joy will arrive in April.” And of course I thought, mine arrived in April, too. She just wasn’t supposed to arrive until July. But can you imagine, the arrogance of that statement? You are pregnant. You have a due date. Everything else is outside of your control. You might welcome that bundle of joy in April. Or March. Or May. Or in a heart-wrenching scene like something out of Private Practice, you might welcome that bundle of joy and say goodbye to it, all in one moment.
But most people don’t think that’s arrogant at all. Expectations are a right, to the uninitiated. I wish I were uninitiated.
Six months and Amy should be a happy, screaming 3 month old by now. Instead, we’re back on the baby-making train, and I’m left only with bittersweet memories of the time we spent together. There are still songs I can’t listen to without thinking of her, because I listened to them so much when I was pregnant with her, imagining she could hear them too. Those songs are hers – ours – and probably always will be, and I’m grateful that I can still listen to them and remember her fondly.
Six months. I know I should have something more meaningful to say, but “six months” seems the only way to convey it. The heart-breaking, bittersweet, eternal injustice of it. Six months since Amy was here, and then wasn’t.