So that Would/Should conversation was gnawing at me since last night, and it made for a worthy ‘thought for the day’ post, but the truth is I still just want to bitch. Rant and rave and wave my complaints in the air. Tell you stuff you would have to gut through listening to anyway if we were face to face.
We got a bottle of wine from the flight attendant last night because I was blubbering sufficiently to require that my husband retrieve tissues from our overhead bag, prompting the attendant to inquire about the situation. Apparently losing your child justifies some alcohol, courtesy of the airline.
I want to see pictures of Anna growing and changing in various parts of my parents house, along with the ones of my brother’s little girl. The one who is two months older than Anna would/should be. There’s a sepia-toned one of Ruthie’s ‘four month old feet’ on the fridge - the same age Anna would be on Wednesday. Hence the chosen picture for this post. Those are my parents’ hands. One hour old feet.Do you get to call them ‘old’ when they were never alive to start clocking time after birth?
For the record, before we came my parents asked if it would be too hard to see the pictures of Ruthie up in the house. We said ‘No, of course you should leave them up. We want to see her, we know and respect and are grateful she’s your granddaughter too’. Of course it’s different when you’re actually here, when so obviously that there should be another colored picture of a smiling baby in pink and purple polka-dots right next to Ruthie’s. Where the coaster and the water bill now lie.
Ruthie’s picture is in a frame that says “Grandkids”. Nothing more on that even needs to be stated aloud, since my eyes overflow with tears and the whole ‘lungs crumpling into the emptiness’ thing begins. Oh god that I wish there would be pictures of those two girls together (and with all the other future grandchildren to come from my brother and his wife). Will we ever look at pictures of the kids without feeling the knife of the one who’s missing?
The bed in my parents guest room is to die for. FYI to all future guests here. Bring comfy pajamas, you’re not gonna want to get up. They also grow excellent grapefruit January-March.
I’m pissed and dying at the same time that most every waking moment is not about Anna while we’re here. That one of us is not sneaking in to check on her every several minutes. That Mom isn’t vying to be the one to change her during daylight hours. That our card games aren’t interrupted by fussing and feeding, maybe even some cooing and squawking as she entertains herself. That maybe there are no card games at all because Brad and I are too tired! That they don’t get the satisfaction of feeding her a bottle and the magic of being mesmerized with each other in the act. That they don’t get to have her all to themselves for a few hours while Brad and I spend some time recognizing our 4th anniversary Wednesday. That my parents feel the same endless expanse and depth of loss and sadness that we do, and there is nothing to be done except validate those emotions and hold on to each other and hope that someday it won’t feel this bad...except that doesn’t really seem possible or realistic.
After my mother broke down after seeing colored pictures of Anna for the first time (previous pictures were only in black and white), I told her she “should write a blog of her own, it’s very therapeutic.” She said she can’t write and she’d just say the same thing over and over. Well, yeah. Me too. Pretty much every moment of every day, every action I take, every situation I’m in I think “How would this be different if Anna were here?” It’s what I think about all. the. time. So writing about it here is a tiny release in the Dam of Wishes...a leak of the Wants that I otherwise hold and bear in silence. Sure, they’re often a litany of the same things over and over. Isn’t that what life would be? Every day feeding, changing, sleeping, pumping, holding, worrying, glorying, sharing, staring, teaching, stimulating, smiling, documenting, buckling, unbuckling, carrying, soothing, cuddling ......loving. I miss the same damn things - every. day. Telling about it over and over to cyberspace is maybe the only thread to sanity, the only cry to the gods to the ethers that I believe continues after I finish typing. Something about it being stated, in black and white. Standing as a record playing over and over and over to the universe, and everytime someone reads it and feels something in response it amplifies the cry. Sometimes having your pain heard is the only salve there is.