I read a quote the other day.
Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
Ain’t that the truth?
I went back to work this week. I felt like it was time to start getting into a routine, and the Hubs had to go back to work too, so it seemed like being home alone would be worse than going back to the grind.
I may have been wrong.
By the end of the day, I’m pretty tired and I’m pretty prone to thinking about our baby and the life I should be living right now with Hudson.
She’d be three weeks old.
She’d be breast feeding every two hours.
She’d be pooping a million times a day.
She’d be so effin’ adorable in the cute little onesies I have all washed up for her.
We’d be eagerly awaiting Daddy’s return home so we could show off all of Hudson’s new tricks.
We’d be a family.
Our family will always be missing a member, and it breaks my heart.
I cry the entire drive home. I come home to my husband who has been looking forward to seeing me all day, and I am no fun, I’m a bundle of weepy tears and regret and disappointment that this is our life now.
I try to pump myself up, turn the tables and refill the glass, because living like this, in this hole, is not living. But sometimes it isn’t easy to turn the tables and refill the glass. Sometimes all you want to do is lay on the bed and cry.
A very thoughtful person in my life sent me a book called A Broken Heart Still Beats. It is a compilation of excerpts from books and poems and songs all about bereavement and especially focusing on the loss of a child. This struck me – from Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes:
… you do come out of it, that’s true. After a year, after five. But you don’t come out of it like a train coming out of a tunnel, bursting through the Downs into sunshine and that swift, rattling descent to the Channel; you come out of it like a gull comes out of an oil-slick. You are tarred and feathered for life.
That’s how I feel. Tarred and feathered. Unrecoverable. There’s no bouncing back from this, because your ball is deflated. There won’t be a day I don’t think about Hudson and miss her. I’m incredibly sad, and later maybe that will fade from the “cry so hard your eyes hurt” sad to more of a bittersweet, “remembering her fondly” sadness. I’m agonizingly angry about it, and maybe that will fade in time from a senseless, “want to punch strangers” anger to more of a passive, “Why Me?” type of anger.
There are just days when it is harder than others to find the positive and keep your focus there. I know I owe it to Hudson to be happy and to be a good wife and a good friend and a good employee and a good person. But I’d rather have Hudson.
And there’s nothing I can do to change the fact that I don’t get her in this life.