Steve and I cry as we begin to come to terms with how much we wanted a son – wanted you. He never believed for a second you wouldn’t make it. Even the doctors thought everything would be okay. We were all wrong. This is far, far from okay.
I am not angry. I do not find it unfair. It is, for some reason, part of my journey. I am heartbroken. I am at a loss. I am unsure how to function, what to do with myself to get through to the other side of this pain, or this numbness, or this sense of being a statistic.
We are surrounded by love. I am grateful. And I want to go away. I want a cave where I can retreat and fast track this grief process, this growth process. I want someone to take care of everything and everyone else for a while so I can disappear into the center of it and come out cleansed. If only it were that simple.
I feel blood ooze between my legs. This is no longer scary bleeding but I still react with fear. The bleeding will end eventually and then every month I will be reminded of these weeks, of this loss. Of all the blood – the clots the size of oranges – the looks on the nurses faces – the doctor’s voice telling me he was beginning to worry about my life.