Not quite three weeks

September 4, 2008

It has been not quite three weeks since Teddy was born, and not quite three weeks since he died. I’ve learned things in these weeks that I’d happily forget if I could. I continue learning what I never wanted to know.

I’ve learned to hate sports bras. My milk is nearly gone, and I find that I resent it, resent that my body is being so damned biddable, that I’m healing in spite of the fact that inside I’m a giant raw wound.

I’m learning new ways of crying – the helpless and near-hysterical sobs were not completely unfamiliar to me, but now I know the desperate and tearless gasps for air, the quiet and steady drip of saltwater that can drag on through a whole day, the broken-voiced wail, the exhausted and soggy sigh.

I’ve learned what it is to live with no skin, vulnerable to every little breeze, to the obvious and obscure reminders. I can cry over asparagus in the grocery store, over a good friend’s announcement that their plans for adoption are moving forward, at sunlight on the lilac leaves in my backyard, at my newfound ability to drink coffee, at a Cubs game (there’s a tiny Cubs hat in a room upstairs – and thinking of it is almost enough to make me swear off baseball entirely). I’ve learned that whether I want to or not, I will go to sleep and wake up crying with pure dumb want, with my new and sad mantra beating through every particle of my being – I want him back, I want him back, I want him back.


One comment

  1. A meteore could change a world, just passing a few days. Brighter than brightness.
    Wishing well.

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