I couldn't think of a good title for this post. There are just no good words.
It's four months this weekend since I delivered the boys. By the end of today, A's pregnancy will be over. Another Friday loss. She'll remember the 2nd of the month, instead of the 3rd and 4th. On Sunday, May 4, it is 7 years since my mother died.
I didn't want to share this with her. All my lamenting about how we had gotten so close, and how I feared it wouldn't last. How we had nothing to bond over now. This is not what I wanted. I don't want her to understand this.
It's been odd over the last couple of years, getting to know her. Finding out how similar we are in so many ways. But also how different. She's like my mom, a lot. She has the same hands. And she has the same brave face. The rational, practical approach: be busy taking care of people. As a kid, I always thought A was so strong. She almost never cried, and I always cried. It scared me when she openly cried, maybe because of the intensity of it. If my sister was crying, you knew it was big.
In recent years, and because we live so far away, it's rare for me to see her show such emotion. At my mother's death and funeral, her stone unveiling, my grandfather's death. And after one of the residents told us about the risks to my baby, being born too soon, with not enough fluid around him. The doctor left the room and -- shockingly -- we both burst into tears from across the room. If I had any denial left at that point, it was gone.
And she was there for me, for two weeks. Before and after the birth/death. She made me laugh in the hospital when everyone else was anxious and stone-faced. When I was getting upset. And I love her for that.
While I was recovering from the delivery at home, we talked about stupid things people say when they're trying to comfort the bereaved (or when talking to an infertile). We decided that most people are uncomfortable so they say stupid things. They feel like they need to fill the quiet space. They are trying to make themselves feel better, less uncomfortable.
I can see myself sitting in my car, after my class on Wednesday night, talking with her.
Me: A, I'm just so sorry. I wish there was something else I could say.
A: That's all you can say. There's nothing else to say. You know.
It was almost the same conversation, but with reversed roles, four months ago. I didn't want to share this with her.