Our daughter would be one week old today.
The Hubs and I decided to get out of town for a while, to be away from the familiar faces in Walla Walla who might see me and ask about Hudson. We didn’t want to be captives in our own home so we headed a few hours west.
Funny things remind us of Hudson.
We went into a Sports Authority and I wandered past a little girl’s softball gear display and I thought about Hudson playing sports and how competitive she’d be.
We went into a Safeway, and the Hubs was picking out apricots, and the soft skin of the fruit reminded him of Hudson’s soft skin.
I saw a mother with a newish baby in Safeway, and I hated her.
I want my baby.
The walls in this Red Lion hotel are thin thin thin. I heard a baby screaming yesterday and I wanted so badly for it to have been my baby. I never heard Hudson scream, never saw her open her eyes, I was robbed of the gross diaper changes.
As parents of a one-week old, we should be sleep deprived and on edge and getting to know the ins and outs of our daughter. Instead, we are sleep deprived and on edge and planning her memorial, clinging to our precious few memories as they get farther and farther away and their edges get muddled.
I feel guilty when I think of her and don’t cry, when I talk about her and don’t choke up, when I laugh at something at all. We’ve now spent more days without her than we got with her. And I know this is all part of the healing process, that the hurt starts to numb at a certain point, it just has to.
Mornings are the worst. It’s like the extra sleep I get restores my Sad and Angry Vault so I have a whole new wealth to tap into. By the end of the day I’ve either cried it all out or I’ve at least been able to talk to the Hubs and sort and organize my sadness and anger, so at least I can sleep at night.
And when I sleep, I dream of Hudson and only Hudson.
Last night I dreamed that as long as my heart was beating, Hudson’s heart was beating. So I was making a conscious effort throughout the night, thinking of my heart beat fueling my daughter’s.
I miss our baby so very much. Her little spontaneous gasps and shivers, her crazy mop of hair, her wrinkly feet. I want to put lotion on her cracked hands and feet, to sing “With Hudson in the Family” to her and to cradle her head in my hand. I want to pinch the tips of her perfectly formed ears and kiss her sweet cheeks.
I haven’t been able to derive much hope or happiness from the thought of seeing Hudson in heaven. I’m not sure why. I think it is okay to not be comforted by that right now, because I’m still hurt and angry that I didn’t get to hold and cherish and love her more in this life. Heaven may be perfect, but being Hudson’s mommy was heaven on earth and I didn’t even get to experience a fraction of it. I can’t even imagine the overwhelming joy – because I’m stuck here at one week after our daughter’s birth, on the opposite end of the spectrum, missing my precious baby girl with every ounce of my being.