I’m writing this today for me – not for you. To process. To feel.
5 years today since we lost our baby.
Hard to write – hard to believe.
5 years is a significant allotment of time.
Its enough time that you cannot honestly tell anyone for certain where you will be in 5 years time, but you can give them a pretty good estimate.
Monday 20th August, 2007. 4 days before our wedding. And I couldn’t hold onto that baby. Couldn’t keep it safe
It makes this week an emotional rollercoaster.
Monday for grieving. For taking stock. For being grateful.
Friday for celebration. Love. Entwining fingers and congratulating ourselves on making it through another year. Together.
I feel less and less like that babe’s mother each year. Like he doesn’t belong to me and I no longer to him.
Like maybe he never really existed at all except in my own happy bubble.
Ethereal, ephemeral, untouchable.
I have a different happy bubble now. A hard, tiring, nonetheless exhilarating bubble filled with love.
And that baby – that memory – threatens to burst my bubble less frequently than ever.
And the further away his memory flies, the more I clutch to it. Where does he exist if not in my heart? There is nothing physical of him left bar two ultrasound negatives and a pregnancy diary – meticulously kept until 17 weeks and 6 days.
And while the babes sleeping under the roof of the house we bought for him take this physical world by storm, I wonder – is it normal to resent them, just a smidge, for succeeding where he did not? For surviving.
His death brought them life. It made me a better mother to them. More grateful, more present.
More aware that at any moment, they could be taken. Like he was.
What does one do, with feelings so remarkably intertwined? Blended into a bittersweet, heady cocktail that you daren’t sip more than sparingly.
You’d be nearing 5 now, darling babe.