This summer, at our cottage, I’d give my belly a little pat and say to Justin, “Hard to believe we’ll have a seven-month-old baby with us here next summer.” I’d think how she’d be sitting up by then, how we’d have to keep her from eating the sand on the beach, how we'd need to keep her in the shade. I’d remind myself of these things on purpose, remind us how our lives would be different then. Preparing myself for all the changes to come in our lives.
|Labor Day weekend at the cottage. Thoughts of our daughter with us there next summer.|
Now it’s so hard to believe that we won’t have a seven-month-old baby with us next summer at the cottage.
Another baby-loss mama - who I have connected with and who feels like an old friend now - wrote something similar. She explained how fucked up it is that you spend nine months preparing for your new normal with your baby. You spend nine months preparing yourself for all the changes that are to come with your new baby, prepping yourself, reminding yourself that this is real. Your entire world is supposed to be turned upside down by a screaming, crying baby. You prepare yourself for that change. You’re ready for that change. And instead you leave the hospital completely empty. Empty body. Empty hands. Empty heart. And soon after, you’re supposed to go back to your lives before. You’re supposed to walk the dog, go to work, go to the gym, come home, have dinner, hang out with your friends. The old normal, but totally fucked up. Our new normal is the old normal with a big fucking hole in the middle of it.
I miss my daughter.