Everything is a painful reminder of what we’ve lost at the minute. We are forcing ourselves to go through the motions, leave the house and do normal things which I think is helping in a way but it’s so difficult and exhausting. It’s the summer holidays so children are everywhere. Families are everywhere. We went for lunch earlier in the week and I burst into tears twice because there was a couple cooing over their small baby and that should be us but it isn’t. Pregnant women seem to be sniffing me out. Seeing them rub their beautiful bellies with pride makes me ache with what I’ve lost. My hand still automatically goes to my tummy sometimes and for a second I forget, then the reality kicks me in the pit on my stomach and I can’t breathe.
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Thankfully we’re going to Cornwall tomorrow for a week so we can have a little breather from the fear of bumping into people. Alongside the scary prospect of having to say the words ‘he passed away’ when someone looks at my flattened tummy and empty arms is the guilt of being out behaving normally. It may sound ridiculous but I feel so on edge when I’m out of my house that people will look at me and think I don’t look heartbroken enough or question how I can possibly be dressed and not just rocking in a dark corner somewhere. I’m scared someone will think I didn’t love my baby enough because I’m able to function and do basic tasks. Isn’t that insane? I know that’s insane but again grief is full of contradictions and it’s incredibly confusing sometimes.
There are brief moments of peace where we talk about something else, laugh at something silly or get lost in something on the television and it’s not that we forget because it’s impossible to but it just doesn’t hurt as much for five minutes. We don’t always have tears in our eyes when we talk about him. We can laugh and smile at how big his personality was for someone who never lived outside my body, we can make stories up about things he would have done and we can imagine what he’s doing right now wherever he is and for those minutes my heart feels so much lighter. But then a child will walk past holding his mother’s hand or a dad will heave his boy onto his shoulders and the grief kicks me in the stomach and I cannot breathe and all I can think is this is just not fair.
Monday is the day I was booked to be induced. It should have been our baby’s birthday and to celebrate we will light a candle and remind eachother of his chubby chin and pink fingernails and hopefully we won’t have tears in our eyes but joy in our hearts.