Lest my last two posts make anyone believe the silly line that having a living baby makes it all better, I am here today to tell you it does not. I am not sure if it’s that it’s April (Natan’s due date month) or the distance from my all-consuming subsequent pregnancy worries, but the past few days have been rough. Two days ago, I encountered, in one of the lactation rooms on campus I hadn’t used before, a lovely recliner. It was by far the most comfortable chair I’ve seen in one of those rooms, and yet it ruined my day entirely because it happened to share the upholstery of the chairs in the L&D wing of Old Hospital. I had no idea something like that could still prostrate me. This morning, while swimming at the Y, I remembered I was in the lane I’d been in the last time I swam during my pregnancy with Natan. Guilt and bad feelings flooded in. Why wasn’t I more activist then? Why didn’t I demand that they not dismiss my contractions as Braxton Hicks? Why didn’t I insist on a cervical measurement at my last appointment? Why when I felt badly after dinner the night before all hell broke lose didn’t I think to go to L&D? Maybe my cervix would have just enough length for an emergency cerclage. Or maybe going on bedrest those 18 hours earlier could have bought us more time. I know the rational answers to all that and I’ve been through the pangs a million times before. I know that I couldn’t have known, that I was trusting those who were supposed to know. That I am not in control of everything.I am so sick of being a grieving mom. I WANT desperately for the rumors to be true: for Baby Man’s healthy birth to erase the events of the year preceding it, to be able to say, “But look now it’s all better!” But it’s not. It’s easier, a little better, but not all better. It never will be.
Edited to add: ok, that’s a bit dramatic. Life, I should say, is a lot better. The days are a lot happier than before. But when the grief comes, it’s not better.