Wishes

I was congratulating myself on making it through my two days alone without a complete meltdown.  Figured those anti-depressants must be doing their job at keeping me at somewhat even-keel.  Then I received a series of horrible gut-punches from none other than my own inquisitive sons.

It started after school on Friday when Theo told me that Baa, his stuffed sheep, was going to have a baby.  I cringed and chose not to engage the conversation.  Then we were in the car, driving to pick up his brother when he said “Mommy, if you could have anything, what would you wish for?”  I pretended not to hear him, but he became more insistent “What would you wish for, Mommy?”  I still did not answer but I choked on my own tears.  I wish that I could have my babies back.  And then, even further: I wish that this had never happened to our family.

After picking up Quentin, he continued on the Baa-is-having-a-Baby game.  Quentin asked if we had any toys that we could give the baby, to which I painfully replied that all of our baby toys were packed away in the basement.  He persisted in asking if we had a crib.  No, no crib.  Then he delivered the awful blow of “I wish you were having a baby, Mommy” in a mournful, raspy voice.

I thought that I had packed enough triggers into one car ride, but they were not done with me yet.  Theo asked “Mommy, did you make up a new planet – My Baby Died?”  I froze before asking him “Where did you hear that?”  “I heard you talking” was his response.  “What is Planet My Baby Died?”  He must have overheard me talking to Ger.  I told him that it was just an expression, where Daddy and Mommy felt like we were on another planet from everyone else, because our baby died and not everyone could understand.

My therapist told me something along the lines that I could “educate” people on grief, through writing, that I could help people to understand what it is like to go through something so traumatic who have not experienced anything like it themselves.  No thanks, I would rather have passed on that job.  She also told me I could email her, in this interim week where she is out, letting me know that she does not extend the offer of email correspondence to all of her clients.  I realize now how much I need that hour of conversation, however difficult, and have come to depend on its increased frequency over the past two weeks.  However, I don’t know what I would write to her – what would I say?  Likely I will just have an increase in my own writing.

As the kids bounded into our room this morning, I couldn’t help but notice the time.  6:45 a.m.  Within an hour of being exactly two weeks since she was born.

My canvas arrived yesterday, Monet’s “Irises.”