I miss the little boy who would be here now.
I hate the memories I have surrounding his death.
But they are intertwined with the memories surrounding his birth.
So I clutch them like shards of glass. They cut me open and make me bleed, but I cannot let them go.
I still feel the bitterness of Loss. The loss of friends, relationships, laughter, and the person I used to be . . . all the things I lost when my baby died.
The weight of the loss is immeasurable. “Losing a child” is a euphemism, a cop-out. I lost an entire lifetime of memories. I lost the rest of my life as I knew it when I was still pregnant. I lost my innocence, my childlike joy.
In some ways, I feel as if I’ve lost my sanity. I don’t try for a “normal” life anymore, and I have given up on ever feeling “normal.” Nice-crazy is now what I hope to achieve. I’m broken and strange, and a stranger to myself, but I can still be nice, and I hope that the language of kindness that I speak is enough to make up for what is lost in translation. Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn’t. But it’s all I can offer right now.
I love this losing and this loss as much as I hate it, and I hope that someday the love will win the war over the hate. But each day is a battle, and sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose. Today I am losing.
On days like these, I sit by the side of the road on my journey of grief, and I wait for tomorrow.
I miss him, but I love the feeling of missing him, because it’s the same as loving him, and it’s that inextinguishable love as a mother that I know I will never, ever lose.