Weaving

Three people in our lives have had babies since Julia's death.  We know none of them well, but that doesn't take away the sting of hearing the news.  Two close friends will be having their babies in April and May.  Just thinking about it sends me into a panic.  My child was supposed to already be here.  How come they get to become parents and I don't?  

My friendships with my pregnant friends have been put on hold for awhile, and that makes me sad.  I miss them.  But when I think about calling them up or seeing them the panic returns. A very pregnant woman thinks of nothing but the child inside of her, and that is all I would be able to think about when seeing them.  I was waiting for the bus the other day and saw two pregnant women walking towards me.  As they passed, I caught a snippet of their conversation.  They were talking about strollers, and who can blame them? 

 I struggle to recognize that expecting and new parents have the right to be deliriously happy over the little baby they have created.  And they have the right to talk about it.  Sometimes I wish I could wear a sign that said, "My baby died."  I want the mothers with strollers to be the ones to avoid me, instead of the other way around.

Today was the first warm day in the city, and Josh and I went for a walk to pick up some food for dinner.  Leaving the house is not one of my favorite things to do, especially when I am in a good mood.  There are too many triggers out there that have the potential to crush my spirits. We walked and talked and even laughed.  The sun was setting and everyone was out enjoying the warm weather and reprieve from the rain.  And for the first time Josh and I talked about what should have been without going into a total meltdown.  We shared some thoughts, shed some tears, and then moved on to another subject.  And instead of making me feel sad or guilty, I am pleased.  Julia has been woven into the fabric of our everyday lives.  At first, her life and death were the elephant in the room that we had to talk about before we moved onto happier subjects.  Now, she can be mentioned casually in conversation.  

I was on the train with a friend the other day and I opened my wallet to get something out.  My friend saw the picture of Julia and commented again on how much hair she had.  We exchanged a few words about her and then moved on. For one of the first times in a while I felt like a mother.   I don't think that friend knew how much this meant to me.  Instead of treating Julia as a sad and horrible tragedy, she treated her as my child.