An echo of a familiar feeling as I woke up this morning. I was completely worn out, more tired than when I’d gone to bed. It took the walk from my bed to my couch to bring back the tears. I must have had some faith left in righteousness, because as scared as I am for us, I simply did not believe, could not think, that Meg and D would lose their daughter.
I want so desperately for it not to be true, but my desires are futile, ridiculous even.
I had no idea that your lives, the lives of the bloggers I read and my commenters, had become so real. I’ve become friends with one of you in person, corresponded directly via email and instant chatted with others. I knew that you’ve all been among my greatest supports since I began blogging. I knew I rely on you, your kind words and encouragement almost every day. I knew that I try, sometimes clumsily, to return the favor. I didn’t think you weren’t “real,” whatever that means. Yet I did feel a little sheepish talking to non-bloggers about my online friends. Saying to a camp-crazy friend in offline life, “You won’t believe what happened to a friend of mine who sent her son to this camp her husband was so excited about….” and then relating a story I’d read online. Another online friend brought us reassuring news about someone we’d known in real life, but lost touch because he was in a part of the world or was just of an age where communication technologies aren’t so reliable. Fun stuff. Who’d have thought my day-to-day life and my screen life could become so enmeshed?
But I didn’t know, didn’t realize just how much I care about all of you until grief struck again. Or maybe that’s wrong. I think I did know. I certainly felt the parallels for Meg and I – the cerclage, the waiting, the horrible early 20s weeks of pregnancy. I also felt the differences – I lost Natan and had a miscarriage. She’d lost baby girl twins and another baby girl before that. Along with early losses. But everything was looking so good for her this time. I couldn’t even think this baby girl wouldn’t come home to them. It seemed more possible that my baby boy wouldn’t, because my G-d, how could her losses keep compounding? They could because there is no fairness, there is no righteousness as I want to understand it. I wanted to think that together we could get past our losses, and finally end up on the other side. That maybe someday our baby boy and baby girl would meet, and play together while we sat and watched, relieved that fortune had finally smiled upon us.
If our baby boy comes home with us, I will feel more than ever the randomness. I’ll be grateful and happy, and thank the arbitrary statistical models because I can’t discern any divine order to this.
I will miss Meg and D’s baby girl, their survivorgirl and para-trooper, forever.