Physically Healing

Within a week, I’m physically much better. I can go up and down stairs, and Scott and I take walks every day to try and get me back into shape. I try to do physical things – painting the spare room seems like a good idea; I was in the middle of priming it when I went into the hospital. Of course, as soon as I start painting all I can think about is how I was going to arrange baby furniture in this room. I was going to have it perfect, I took everything into account as I designed it in my head. I used to lay awake at night staring up into darkness and smiling as I decorated the nursery in my head. I was going to put the crib so that as soon as I opened the door I could see my baby. I was going to put the rocker-glider next to the window that looked out onto the backyard, so I could have a nice view while I breastfed. I was going to sew the curtains myself, and use organic fabrics, VOC-free paints, make it as healthy and safe for baby as possible. Now I’m painting a room destined to be an office or spare bedroom. Not fair. I stop painting.

Scott talks to me a lot, tells me the things I need to hear. I know how much he loves me, and that helps a little. We have to wait for the autopsy results to determine, if they can, why the baby died. If it’s likely I could have a successful pregnancy in the future, we’ll try again. If not, we’ll adopt. Either way, we know we will be parents someday, we just have to be patient. This is easy to say, not so easy to feel. I want a baby so bad it hurts. I want to be pregnant again, I want to feel baby kicks inside me, I want to rub my stomach and not feel empty. I get phantom kicks sometimes, and I start to rub my belly in response, until I remember. Patience is not something I’m good at in normal situations, this situation is fucking torture.

Sometimes it’s easy to be happy, normal. I lose myself in books like always, I play Zelda, I cook and eat and laugh with Scott over silly things. I think to myself, it’s going to be ok. I’m not depressed, I’m just grieving, and grieving doesn’t last forever. Then I pass a pregnant woman, or a lady with a stroller, and all I can think is, it’s not fucking fair, why do you get a baby and I don’t? What did I do wrong? Why did my body not do a good enough job, and yours did? I’m so impatient for this hurting to be over, but I don’t want to lose it, either. It’s confusing.