Invisible Mother

Each day, another milestone.

A day with friends, making forward steps to move through this experience and ease ever so slowly into our new normal.

Then a newborn baby and his mama walk in. She has him in a wrap, similar to the one we had for Luca. The conversation turns to the talk of spit up and diapers, of feeding and naps. And I wish I could join in their story of parenting.  Their story is of sleep deprivation and firsts and baby smiles. Our story is of saying goodbye, looking at the same 165 pictures every week, grief counseling, of healing, of isolation.

I’m caught by my own self, looking at her, so longingly. Wishing I could have that experience with my own son, my baby, my Luca.

And I am pretty sure she sees me as this childless woman. I do look at her with admiration in my eyes, but she has no idea what I’ve been through.  I don’t want her life. I want my life. The way we envisioned it to be with Luca.

She doesn’t know that I carried my son to full term, that I had a ring sling wrap waiting at home to put Luca in.

She doesn’t know I labored for three days, was put under, and woke up to the loss of the experience of the silent birth of my son. He was born, and he didn’t make a noise. He was born and I didn’t get to meet him for nearly 30 hours.

He was born, and when I did finally meet him, I had to say hello and goodbye. I had to fit in a lifetime of memories in minutes.

She doesn’t know that the first time I laid eyes on my son, I held onto him while his spirit left his beautiful little lifeless body.

That’s why I look at her so longingly. I wish I could feel what she is feeling with her son, if only for a moment, with my Luca D’oro.  And I wish so much I could share my story with another mother, to be acknowledged as a parent, as his mother.

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