When I came across the first ultrasound picture a few days ago, in the back of a drawer in the kitchen, I asked D what he wanted to do with it. "Throw it away?", I said, to which he replied without hesitation, "Yes." And so I did, without much thought or contemplation.
When I realized on Monday I would've been through the uncertainty of the first trimester, and into the safety of the second (hey, I can still be optomistic right?), I wasn't really sad or upset, just . . . .nothing. It was weird.
When earlier this week, when I realized a close friend, who is due in June, invited us out to her new house that will be finished in November, I thought that I would'nt have a baby with me too, and we couldn't talk about lack of sleep or chapped nipples (not that I would talk about that anyway, at least not until I'd had some drinks), or onesies, or boppies, or Baby Einstein videos. Actually, we would never talk about all of that anyway, because neither one of us, despite loving them, are all baby people. We would probably talk about work and our crazy families. Not there is anything WRONG with that, mind you, just saying what we would do.
I was in T.arget yesterday, returning some stuff and buying more stuff, which is what I tend to do whenever I go there. And I walked by a display of baby girl Easter dresses. There was one. It was pink and green gingham, with the big white collar, and with little bunnies hopping sweetly along the hem. With matching bloomers.
And I stood there and stared at it. And it was then that I realized, realized emotionally, that our sweet baby girl was dead. And she would never wear that dress.
And, I STILL did not cry. I got a sick feeling in my stomach, I got a fuzzy feeling in my brain. But STILL I didn't cry.
I went and looked at shoes. But I didn't buy any.
I thought about going back and buying the dress. But I didn't.
When I was telling D about it, as we were lying in bed last night, and he was looking at me in the way he does when he wants to make the pain go away, I started to cry. And I cried and cried. It was an ugly, all out snotty cry.
And it felt good to know I miss her, really miss her. Miss who she was going to be, the tantrums she was going to throw, showing her how to plant flowers and vegetables, which birds eat the finch food in the backyard, what ants are good and which are bad, how to pet the cat, how not to pull the dogs ears, where worms live and how to make brownies. And watch her learn everything for the first time, with all the complete fascination and wonderment children have.
"Really, mama, worms live in the dirt? What do they eat? Do worms have a mama and a daddy and brothers and sisters too? When do they sleep? Where do they go to the bathroom?"
I can say now that I am finally dealing with it, and that it is ok to miss her.
Bye sweet girl.