It is amazing to me, that everything that has happened can happen yet I can still think in some ways I was lucky.
But it is true. I am lucky.
We had time to prepare. We knew we would lose our baby. We knew he would die. Although we were blinded by our twenty-week ultrasound and the amniocentesis finding, that knowledge gave us time to prepare. And I'm not saying that knowing we would lose him made losing him any easier, I'm just saying that in that sense I feel lucky. Of course, preparing ourselves did nothing to dampen the grief.
And yet, we had a reason. We knew we would lose him.
We did not have his crib set up and ready. So we did not have to stare at an empty crib when he was gone.
We did not have tiny newborn clothes washed in Dreft and neatly folded. So we did not have little unworn onsies to pack away.
We did not have our bouncy chair out of storage or an infant car seat in our car. So we did not have a bouncy chair or car seat to shove under our stairs and out of sight.
We knew he would leave us, so we had nothing ready for him to stay with us.
I am lucky that for two precious months he was still with us, yet I knew he would be leaving. And as hard as it was not knowing when that time would come, I got to savor every tiny flutter, every kiss on the belly from my three-year-old, every raspberry from my five-year-old. I got to prepare myself and our family that we would not be bringing him home. That he would die.
The grief it is settling around me. It is pushing on me, sometimes quietly and other times still loud and hard. Sometimes I think I am finally floating, taking deep breaths of air, and out of nowhere I am pushed (or is it pulled?) back down, trying to gasp a quick breath before going under.
It is scary. It is hard. It is grief.
But I keep getting back up to the surface, fighting for a new breath. Seeing some light, feeling that light on my face, knowing that there will be more moments of going under the water, of darkness, but at that moment there is light.
There is light.