I have slipped into a lull.
Physically exhausted from both the grief and anticipation, I’ve been left speechless. Which is definitely not the same as thoughtless. I am constantly, full of thought.
I can’t tell you how many random and previously visited thoughts flow through my mind during any given moment.
Luca feels so far from my memory. His sister, even though she kicks and turns and hiccups, feels so far away from my arms. I’m stuck in the middle, with myself.
I have trouble remembering what his hair felt like against my cheek. I don’t remember what he felt like in my belly. When I feel her movements now, I compare, but just can’t remember much.
And it makes me tear up to re-read that sentence. Where did he go? Where did my baby go? Besides his ashes being in a little white box that sits beneath a picture of Gina and I holding him as he passed, in our hallway where we walk through several times a day, a place I can’t help but think he’s supposed to be right next to us. But that’s not him.
Those are just his physical remains.
Loss happens. Beings die all the time. Babies, children of all ages, partners, grandparents, parents, pets. There is no restriction or rule. You mostly never know when it’s going to happen, or sometimes you do know, but how much better does that actually make it? You still can’t help but miss your loved one. Maybe if you didn’t have that connection with them, you don’t feel that loss as deeply.
I knew that Luca wasn’t going to make it, at least I had an idea in the fog of medication I was under, for at least 24 hours. And yet, there wasn’t anything about knowing for those hours in advance that could prepare me for what I was about to embark on, for everything that I was about to feel, as a mother, as a human being, as a parent who had the make the decision of what to do with the body of their own child.
Luca was the first child I carried. Our first son, our first child. The connection and the dreams were already established even before he was out of my womb. I never saw his eyes open, heard his laugh, saw him smile. None of it.
And here we stand, just a few months away from welcoming his little sister into the world.
Love. Hope. Excitement. Hope. Anxiety. Hope. Fear. Hope.
I want to hold my own live child in my arms. I want to celebrate her birth and entry into this world. I want to have a peaceful birth. I want to put her into a car seat, and drive her home from the hospital to meet her puppies.
I have so much hope for everything we will get to have the chance to do with her. And at the same time I can’t help but feel the ache for all that we will never get to experience with Luca.