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.

It is good to be here and devastating. Reminders everywhere. I sleep better than I have in days. Your sister falls asleep with her arm over me – she is also feeling the effects of your sudden disappearance. I am grateful to be alive, to be snuggled up next to her. You were supposed to be here too. I don’t understand.

******

Being home. I want to check out. Watch a movie. Read a book. Bury my head in the sand. Ada needs me, wants me to witness her aliveness. She has my physical presence but inside I’m not fully here and I know she can feel it. Somehow I need to take care of myself and of her. I’ve never done this before. This wasn’t how the juggling act was supposed to go.

*****

I look in my closet and can’t figure out clothes. Nothing’s right anymore. The maternity clothes have become my mourning wear. I’ll never be pregnant again. I start thinking about how to give them away but I won’t fit into my real clothes for a while.

I think of my moby wrap, tucked away in a corner. I’ll never carry you in it, your warmth against my chest.

Needing to get out of the hospital. Sweat sticking to rubber pillows, body aching. I can’t get enough air.

I can’t stomach the hospital breakfast on my final morning. Your daddy and big sister bring me food and a latte. I feel almost human. I collect my things. Steve and I snap at each other, then hold each other, vowing to not let our grief come out sideways.

*****

They wheel me to the door and Ada holds my finger, dancing, while we wait for the car. The outside world makes me dizzy. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I should head back in where it’s safe and surreal. I wonder if my incision is going to split open like my heart.

Steve drives us gently home.

So many times I told myself this was simply the story of this pregnancy and we’d look back and laugh about it when you were safely in my arms. The story has a different ending now. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.