I’ve just realised that for the last two Fridays I haven’t counted how many weeks it is since Freddie was born. For at least the last Tuesday, I haven’t counted how many weeks it is since he died. I guess that is progress of sorts. I’m not going to count. I think 2nds and 13ths will be hard for a while yet but maybe there is some hope.
I hate the processes that come with this. The counting. The hearing. The seeing. The sheer effort of not seeing, sliding my eyes past babies in Tesco, not going through the baby clothes section in order to make myself not indulge. Not listening to the words on the radio. Turning it off quickly. Making it, ruthlessly, that I don’t have to see anything to do with babies. Having to ask my children not to ask obsessively about their birth weights, their births, play babies and birth in front of me. Little hurts to keep me sane enough that I don’t hurt people with something bigger. So I don’t break apart. Seeing my children stop and hold their breath to see if I’m going to break down. Wondering if it is better to break in front of them so they know how I love them all and how devastated I am not to have one of them, or not and leave them wondering if I’d carry on okay if it were one of them who had died.
Being frightened, all the time, of turning into a person I don’t want to be, or becoming someone who hurts others out of sheer, desperate, jealous bitterness.
Little sister, I love you. I love that you have your baby boy now. Don’t ever doubt it. Forgive me that I can’t come yet, or look yet, or listen yet. I am so happy for you. I know, I KNOW that he will be the greatest gift you have ever given me, in a little while. I am so grateful he is here and that you have him and can enjoy him. So grateful for your ears and understanding. So sorry I can’t be the sister to you I should be and that I’m not thinking straight enough to get it right.
Love you lots and lots and lots.