So, I have become pregnant again. It wasn’t planned, but I’m excited…most of the time. When I’m not terrified.
I have such a hard time talking about pregnancy with people. I’ll only be 6 weeks on Monday, but since I get so very sick, I don’t even try to keep it a secret. And of course, pregnancy means people want to talk about babies.
They don’t understand what torture that is for me.
They don’t understand that every plan of after birth is prefaced by a “Hopefully.”
Hopefully, when the baby gets here….
I’ll be nursing this baby. Hopefully.
Erin’s going to love helping with the baby. Hopefully. If all goes well. If my baby doesn’t die sometime between now and then.
Sometimes it accidentally slips out, and I get one of two reactions: That terrible pity that I hate, because it seems they think I’ve become some horrible, wounded, terrifying creature that is disfigured beyond recognition. Or I get brushed off because I’m being morbid. I’m worrying too much. I’m “stuck” in my grief and I need therapy at best, medication at worst.
When those are extremes versions of what I really am. I have been wounded, and sometimes the scars are visible. But I’m still me. I’m still breathing. I’m still a beautiful being of worth. I am not defined by my loss. But I am also still grieving. And grief is not a disease. It is not something that one “gets over” in a specified amount of time. It doesn’t mean I am not capable of feeling joy.
I am just different than I was. Cora’s death was my chrysalis. I’m not sure when it happened, but I have emerged into a beautiful butterfly.