Yesterday, the Hubs and I both had our first awkward “telling somebody who didn’t know Hudson had died” experiences.
The Hubs was mowing the front yard, and our wonderfully sweet neighbor man came over and asked,
“Are you a daddy yet?”
I was going through the drive-thru at our local Starbucks. I haven’t had the heart to take Hudson’s carseat out yet. The girl at the window asked, “How’s that baby doing back there?”, straining to get a peek.
“She didn’t get to come home,” was what I managed to squeak out through an incoming tearchoke.
I felt bad. I’m sure she felt worse. Then she flipped up her sleeve and said, “I know what you’re going through.”
Her upper arm was tattooed with two sweet baby feet and a name.
“Oh! We are thinking of doing that too. I’m so sorry.” There was some babbling I’m sure.
I cannot believe how many people I encounter who have experienced such a tragic loss. It’s a nightmare. This world is not my home.
I know that this is likely not the first time I’ll have to break the bad news to somebody. I imagine it will get a little less difficult, that I’ll have better words to share the story, but there’s no avoiding the fact that it is painful, it is uncomfortable. And eventually it will not come up. People who recognize me, remember me when I was pregnant, will either know the story, or they’ll have figured it out, or they’ll have forgotten that I was pregnant, and they’ll think, “Wasn’t she pregnant a while ago?” or they won’t think of it at all.
I can’t imagine a day I won’t think about it at all. But I know that time heals.
And I’m getting better at speaking through the tearchoke.