I need to write, but I don't want to. I know there are things to write, but I don't want to. I've told my story too many times until I can see people inching away thinking Why does she have to mention this again? Dead babies, lost pregnancy infertility, Grief. I have talked and vented and cried. I have yelled at people who didn't deserve it. I have loved and I have gotten lost in it. I have lost who I am, what I want (need) who I used to be No that's not right. Kubler Ross says we tell our story to make sense of it, to let a little in at a time, as much as we can hard it leaks out a bit at a time with tears with seething -- the almost sweet smell of amniotic fluid on the white pad between my legs -- after that first burst it came and went movement, sleep I could feel it leaving me. My only living son my body slowly slowly bit by bit falling away his source of life of growth even as his heart beat strong wavy lines on the ultrasound, Oh look, you can see he's practicing breathing -- But how could he live, how could he grow and breathe and play when my body took away what he needed to do all these things
I had wanted to watch my child grow -- discover his fingers and toes, giggle and walk, grow into a person a little beautiful person someone to walk with for a little while -- so trite is the expression but walk with as he grew on his own with his mother and father slowly receding as he grew into a man -- I wonder if the wonder and joy of watching your child discover his toes ever really goes away
My chest closes off and my throat is tight, squeezing tears, again the tears that you'd think would slow, would dry up after four years
What did that what closed my throat discovering pink little bubble gum toes that fit in a little toothless mouth -- the milestones of growing up all those things I knew I was letting go of, letting him go -- And I couldn't even face it, couldn't be present.
Why didn't we wait a little longer? Why was I the only one with hope -- desperate hope for a future
Was it imaginary? this future? or would it bring pain for my boy? Toes he couldn't reach -- brain bleeds and spastic, cramped muscles -- a feeding bag an ostomy. Five to 10 percent if we made it to 24 weeks, 28 weeks -- 32 -- stunted lungs -- poor weak legs --
And I couldn't say good bye -- not to my cold dead child.
I watch my sister with her eminently healthy child, the one who discovered her toes and fingers and slept, newly born, with a smile on her face -- She is happy and sociable and is learning to use verbs -- verbs, just like that. and she says, I love you, Aunt Sue, and I -- my body my chest constricts with all the air my son never got -- (neither of them got) -- at least one had a chance, such a small one -- oh, the breath stops in throat, and I need to practice breathing.