If you’re my friend, and you’re pregnant . . . please don’t be offended. Or maybe, you might not want to read. I still love you. I’m still happy for you. But I’m still sad for me. That just about sums it up.
I should have known today would be hard.
For some reason, I forget that the 20th day of the month is a hard one for me. I forget that it symbolizes an anniversary . . . that each 20th that comes around is one month further away from the life and death of our baby, and one step closer to the (dreaded) due date and 1-year anniversary.
Today marks 6 months since we lost Olivia. Half-way to a year.
How have 6 months gone by? How could her due date be just 6 weeks away?
I don’t even know what to say. This weekend was really hard, and I had a bit of a breakdown. I don’t think I’ve fully recovered. (But when, exactly is that supposed to happen, anyway?) Every time pregnancy/pregnancy loss/or whatever comes up, I’m doing everything I can to keep from crying.
It’s been awhile since I’ve been so weepy, and I really don’t know what to do with my feelings.
I finally wrote in her journal today … something I don’t do nearly as often as I thought I would.
Writing to her is cathartic though, and for some reason, I can open up to her about how I feel more than I can to anyone else. Maybe because she’s perfect in heaven now and can’t judge me. And I can’t “mess” her up either, the way I could with Maddy if I told her everything I feel inside.
To be honest, many people close to me are pregnant, and it is very hard. Not that I’m not happy for them. But I just feel so left out. On purpose. Like it was God’s joke to have 4 best friends and 1 sister pregnant while I SHOULD be pregnant, but I’m not. It feels like being the last one picked for the team. Except there’s no room left on the team. They’re all plowing ahead without me.
Other people’s preganancies are becoming harder to ignore. And I must admit that several times this week I’ve seriously considered just packing our whole family up and moving away to a place where no one knows me. Where I can just get a fresh start.
But then I remind myself that I still wouldn’t be pregnant. Ryan reminds me that all of my new friends would also likely become pregnant, and I’d be in the same predicament, except with a lot less support.
“Fine,” I retort to him, “I’ll just make friends with middle-aged women.”
“Except,” Ryan counters, “They’ll have grandbabies, and you know how much women like to talk about their grandbabies.They’ll be worse than the moms.”
“Fine,” I start again. “I’ll be friends with teens.”
“Except,” Ryan oh-so-matter-of-factly reasons, “lots of teens are having babies these days.”
“Fine,” I continue, feeling more like I’m rapidly losing this argument, “I’ll be friends with preschoolers.”
Then, after a pause, I have to concede . . . “And if I’m friends with preschoolers, they’ll always come over with their moms . . . . who will most likely be pregnant.”
One day I’ll figure this all out. Right?