I was very detached from the beginning.

watercolor of broken metal chains on a harsh blue floor
Image created via Midjourney

It has been one week since we learned that our baby girl was gone, almost to the hour.  I still cry frequently during the day — different, random things will set me off.  

The boys have been talking about it a little bit, and their frankness is both harsh and, in a way, comforting.  I'm glad that they are too young to truly feel the pain of grieving.  

For example, this morning, Theo said "Mommy, does everyone know that we're not going to have a baby anymore?"  To which I whispered, "Yes, almost everyone knows."  Then Theo said "How did the baby get sick?  I think it must have been a bacteria."  

Quentin looked at me with his wide eyes and said "I want to tell the baby 'sorry.'  I love you Mommy."

I want to tell the baby "sorry" too because without knowing what happened, I have moments where I am wracked with guilt.  What did I do wrong?  

I had tried to be laid back, feeling that being relaxed would make for a healthier pregnancy.  Was I too laid back?  Was I neglectful in some way?  I go back and forth between desperately wanting an answer, and scared of what the answer will be.

I have also been reflecting on my pregnancy overall. I was very detached from the beginning. I remember thinking "We are so blessed - how can we be so lucky?" and those feelings caused me to be afraid that something would happen — that we couldn't be this lucky in our lives.  

People would gush and be excited when I would tell them, and I found myself reserved, or saying things like "Oh — I'll be more excited once the morning sickness passes" — refusing to allow myself to really feel joy.  

I kept thinking "What if something goes wrong?  What if something goes wrong?" — feelings that I didn't have when pregnant with Quentin.  Feelings I did have when pregnant with Theo, at least in the first trimester, having miscarried (at 5 weeks) previously. Maybe it was the universe's way of keeping me slightly removed, if that made the blow any less severe.

My bedroom is a wreck right now, with clothes strewn about.  I cannot stand the thought of wearing my maternity clothes, but my regular clothes don't fit. I placed an order online for some loose tunics and leggings and put a rush delivery on it, so am now in the process of packing away my maternity clothes, and sorting through my fall/winter clothes to see if anything else will fit the need right now.  Ironically, I found the box of maternity tops that I knew I owned but had been unable to find previously.

Sleep has become evasive the past few nights, since I began lactating, mostly from discomfort, which I am doing everything possible to minimize. I hope this physical part passes quickly.  

When I'm alone, I constantly have the TV on for background noise.  I tried to read, but found I get too distracted.  I'm re-watching "Mad Men" and at the end of Season 2, Peggy says the following (about a baby she gave up for adoption):

"One day you’re there and then all of a sudden there’s less of you. And you wonder where that part went, if it’s living somewhere outside of you, and you keep thinking maybe you’ll get it back. And then you realize, it’s just gone."
For Sleep
Sleep eludes me.