Another wake up.
My eyes don’t want to open. I feel hung over.
But it’s not alcohol that I’ve had too much of. It’s the sadness. It exhausts me and makes me feel like I’ve never slept at all, like this last two months have been 1416 hours of being awake. Awake, but a muted awake.
I get up and am alone. Gina has left for work. She’s the only thing that can make me feel better when I get in this rut. She knows every moment of this experience, and has a matching hole in her heart and emptiness in her arms for our son.
It’s silent in our little home. All I can hear is the ceiling fan blades ever so slightly cutting through the air.
But that’s it.
No baby sounds. No crying, no cooing, no breathing. He’s not here.
On a Saturday morning in July of 2012, I got up at 3 o’clock in the morning and peed on a stick. When I saw the second line pop up, I called out Gina’s name. She came over and looked at it, then looked at me with wide eyes and in disbelief. We were pregnant.
We put sweatshirts on over our pajamas and drove to the Walgreens at 3 in the morning to buy more pregnancy tests. I peed on another, and it said pregnant.
We really were pregnant. This was it. We did it. We were going to have our baby, our family.
Here I sit, 10 months later. I was pregnant with our handsome boy. I grew as he grew inside me, I felt his kicks, his hiccups, his tumbling. These movements, indication of his living inside me for 9 months.
And now, nothing.
There is no movement. There are no kicks, no hiccups. We prepared to have a baby and welcome him into our world. We never prepared to lose him. I had to say hello and goodbye to him in the same sitting.
I have never loved anything with all of my being, and so quickly. And just as fast as he came into our world, he left us.
We are empty. Lonely without him. And we wake up everyday to the same bad dream. There is no amount of pinching that will awake us from this.
I yearn to see this face again, to hold him close, smell him, kiss his sweet, soft skin.