Just when I thought, “Hey, I’m feeling better, good even.” I was kicked square in the face with sadness. I should be 24 weeks pregnant, I should be stocking up on tiny diapers and new baby clothes. I should be getting the nursery together, obsessing over fabric patterns and wall decals. I’ve cried more this weekend than I have in weeks, I feel so empty, hallow. I want to have my baby safely tucked away in my womb, I want to feel his tiny kicks, I want for Greyson to have a baby brother, for Greg and I to have sons, plural.
I’m doing my best to keep my head above water, from slipping into the pool of depression. I tell myself everyday that there is nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to change what happened, but there is everything I can do to be a good mom and wife. I’m forcing myself, to put one foot in front of the other, when all I really want to do is lay down and be still, still for years. I recently read an article about a mom who lost a second child (she gave birth and the baby only lived 6 days) and she talked about looking at her 4 year old daughter and realizing that she lost years of her life, she said “I missed her being 2 and most of being 3, I couldn’t see her through my own grief.” My heart breaks for that mom, it’s the thing I’ve feared the most from the very first drive home from the hospital. I don’t want depression and grief to get in my way of being what Greyson needs, what Greg needs. Yet, I fear that there are days that I do just that, days that I check out emotionally from both of them, days that I go through the motions in a fog, where I cry all day, and stare off into space, where my temper has no length of fuse at all and sets off at the smallest of things.
I wish I knew when it will stop hurting so much, I wish I knew if it ever will…
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