It’s that time of year again, where my Facebook memories from 2012 cryptically allude to my pregnancy. We hadn’t announced, yet – soon, but reading back I’m well aware what time it was. Why I had so many appointments, why I was so very tired. When grief was fresh and new – reading these comments was horribly painful. The innocence and optimism is just drenched in every word. I knew there were risks, of course – I couldn’t fathom the extent of the risk or that we could end up with having one beautiful, Still baby, forbidden to ever try for another living baby.
With time and therapy, reading back no longer hurts me. It’s like reading a favourite book; you know there will be tragic parts and a harrowing journey – but that doesn’t stop you from loving that book. That’s what memories of being pregnant with Thomas now feel like. The sad ending doesn’t override my very active maternal love and devotion, regardless of if his heartbeats or not.
I still, to this day, get people dropping comments about adoption or surrogacy, sigh. I’m not sure what rock they think we live under, that they feel we wouldn’t have heard of these options. Clearly, if either option was appropriate for us – we would be there. I may or may not have a file on my computer, forms filled out, letter written to the potential Gestational Carrier. It’s dated 2013. I still had hope of a full physical recovery back then. Now, in 2019, we realize that this is the most recovered I will be, which is pretty staggering considering where I started – but no where near good enough to raise a child, full time, even with help.
People try to call me a “Dog mom” due to my three beautiful (and atrocious) mini dachshunds; but that doesn’t resonate for me. I know it does for many and I’m glad it does. I’m Thomas’ Mum. Thomas is the one I dreamed of, prayed for and wished with every cell in my body, that he would be okay. He would be born healthy and happy. It never occurred to me that I should pray that he was born alive – who knew?? I love my dogs, most days, but it is nothing like the cellular level of love I have for my tiny, baby boy. And I get a bit resentful that people think that love is interchangeable. Like I’m somehow less bereaved because I have the dogs.
Seven years later and my grief looks and feels so much different. It’s no longer an enemy combatant; it’s familiar, it’s at home. Tucked behind my heart, it goes where I go. Sometimes, it will flare and surprise me. Recently, I was watching a Father-Daughter dance at a lovely wedding and got more then a little teary. I tried to sort out why and realized my husband I would never attend our son’s wedding, I would never dance with him on such a special milestone. My son doesn’t achieve milestones, just various markers of time. It took nothing from the celebration of the day; just another reminder, another marker of what we don’t have. What we won’t have.
- The Importance Of Pictures - October 12, 2020
- Self-Isolation And Still Mothers - April 3, 2020
- And Here We Are - June 24, 2019