Wish It Was There

Wish It Was There

2016-08-17 Wish It Was There

There was June 23 through August 24, 2015. Two months and one day from the time we announced my pregnancy with Nelle until the fated day of the ultrasound. During that time, I regularly posted on social media my normal gripes or funny things about pregnancy. Like how Theo wanted to name the baby in exchange for doing chores, things like that.

After we lost her, I frantically went back through my Facebook page and deleted everything. Any post that referenced my pregnancy, I removed. I deleted the photo announcement, showing a pair of Ger’s shoes, my shoes, Theo’s shoes, Quentin’s shoes, and baby girl shoes, all lined up. I knew that if I did not remove them, they would be immortalized for years when I checked my “On This Day” content. Every year I would have to relive those two months and one day of talking openly about my pregnancy. I have books printed of my social media content every year, and did not want to flip through the pages and see my unknowing quips.

I left my blog writing alone. I rarely go back and edit content later, because it is a record of my life.

I did the same thing upon losing Iris. Removed the pregnancy announcement. I had been so guarded that there was not much else to remove between the announcement at Christmas and announcing the loss on February 12. Because I printed my social media book at year-end, her pregnancy announcement is forever immortalized in that book; I cannot erase it.

Now, as I approach one year since losing Nelle, I am keenly aware of the removed content. I went to several prenatal yoga classes, but no record of it until an email arrived in my inbox reminding me that it was one year since my last visit.

A small part of me wishes the deleted content were still there, while a larger part is relieved that it is not.  I know that other content will start to appear soon: losing my baby, grief writing.  How much I struggled with moving from the depths of loss into “normal” and how much it hurt to move forward.