On this day

3 years ago I underwent an epic transformation.  I left the house a superorganism, my former body drastically rearranged to support the growth and development of a tiny human.  I returned emptied and bloodied, not entirely sure that my body was still capable of sustaining life, particularly if the life in question happened to be my own.

Only 4 months had passed since my quiet evening in a local coffee shop, spent drinking lemonade and beaming, keeper of a secret that, in that moment, was mine alone.  I hadn’t POAS yet but I was several days late and I knew.  I remember marveling at just how easily, how quickly, it had happened, despite my understanding that my aging eggs owed me nothing.  It felt so perfectly appropriate, springtime just barely upon us and me giddy with the promise of new life.

But on this day I remember lying in bed, wounded and unmoving but oblivious to the physical pain, watching the late afternoon sunshine as it streamed through our bedroom window.  It was the bright light of high summer, the color of kickball games and block parties, intolerably cruel in it’s cheerfulness.  I begged for mercy, and the swift arrival of nightfall.  Yet the suns rays were steadfast and beautiful and for so long they continued to taunt me with images of watermelon juice as it dripped from so many tiny chins, reminding me that they were not, indeed might never be, mine to kiss.

Oh please let me die in the wintertime.

Today I can once again invite the sun’s warmth to linger.  Today I allow us to play outdoors a little longer than responsibility dictates and kiss my little chin a little more than its tolerance allows.

And today I’m grateful to have this place where it is safe to speak this out loud.  Even if only for a short time, he was here.  Three years ago, he was my springtime.

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15 thoughts on “On this day

  1. Oh…SOB. You sure do evoke a bleak and desperate place, all the more horrible because it’s so cheerfully lit. I’m so very sorry he did not survive, but so glad that you did.

  2. This is such a beautiful post. I wish that things had been different, then, but am so glad that things are different now. I had a springtime loss, too… it seemed especially cruel.

  3. Esperanza

    Wow. This was absolutely breathtaking. I don’t know what to say except I’m so sorry for your loss. My heart goes out to you. Your story really spoke to me, of my own loss. I also remember coming home “emptied and bloodied,” feeling devastated that my body had betrayed me and my child by trapping him or her somewhere inhospitable and dangerous. What a treacherous wrong to inflict on both of us. After 12 hours in the ED I felt I had been through a war. Returning home was so surreal and upsetting. I could hardly see straight.

    My baby was a summertime baby and I couldn’t fathom how I’d live through the fall, let alone return to work. I just wanted to curl up into a ball and die.

    I’m sorry you lost your spring time baby. I’m so glad you’ve found the sun again.

  4. Thank you all for your supportive comments. I have a Dorian Gray-esque fantasy that I can paint some of my more painful memories here where they will be permitted to have their life but simultaneously allow me to replace them with much happier ones. At least it sounds appealing!

  5. what a beautiful post. i lost our 2 oldest boys in winter & fall, respectively, & the holidays always bring bittersweet thoughts, even now– 4 yrs and 3.5 kids later, it hurts.
    i hope that your sweet boy lives in pertpetual springtime, wherever he is.

  6. New to your blog and completely moved by your words. I can’t wait to read more and am so glad you are in a happier place today. Take care.

  7. eggsinarow

    Wow. I can only wish to express myself so beautifully and so completely. You are very talented.

    In such words, his memory remains a blessing.

    (I’m here for ICLW, but I have a feeling I’ll be reading your blog top to bottom tonight.)

  8. So very sorry for your loss. This week is the fourth anniversary of losing my son at 18 weeks. No matter what other joys come our way, of course we’ll always miss our babies!

  9. What a hauntingly beautifully written post. I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m also glad to hear you’ve found yourself again.
    I found you via the 350th Friday Blog Roundup.

  10. This is a beautiful post and so evocative. It was so sad and I’m so sorry for your sadness. Here’s to lot’s of happiness as well.

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