Milestones

It’s almost January 25^th. That’s the day we found out that our expected child was a boy – our little Henry.

I’m getting used to faking it. I’m able to function with other people, be in situations, without completely losing it. I've been good about even being alone.

But this week has been different. My mind keeps on going back a year. I've been involuntarily reliving everything. A year ago, I never would have thought I'd be in this position. Everything went so wonderfully with my pregnancy with Amelia that I never would have even guessed something like this could have happened to us. We didn’t know anyone else who had carried a nonviable baby to term. Well, not nonviable – incompatible with life.

I remember reading that term for the first time. I don’t recall the website, or the article. Just the phrase. And my baby moving inside of me. His strong kicks and his stretches.

I remember waiting for the second ultrasound to look into the cystic images we found with the first. I remember the fear, the knowing that something was wrong. I spent that weekend in a constant state of anxiety. For me – that’s acting out rather gregariously. We went out, I laughed too loudly, tried to be too bright. I tried to talk myself into buying his bedding set – we had decided on a nautical and aquatic theme for his bedroom. I made these plans to make my feeling not true. I tried so hard to believe that I was wrong.

We thought he’d just have a disability. We thought he’d have a hard life, and we’d have a difficult time raising him. We never even thought that he would die.

The last few days, I’ve been alone in my car. It’s really the only time I get to myself. After a moment, I feel something break inside of me – right in the middle of my chest. It’s the walls I’ve been painstakingly constructing over the last few months. I can’t contain the emotion, the pain, as well anymore. I feel like I’m on edge.

Again, I’m in this constant state of anxiety. I’m really tense, I’m trying a bit too hard, I’m either incredibly outgoing or quiet. When I’m quiet, it’s because I can’t speak. It’s because I’m trying to keep my little emotional dam in place. Because, I need to function. Writing it out is helping me understand my thoughts, it helps me acknowledge my pain so I’m not choking on it all day. I can’t drown. I refuse to sink.

I just miss you, Henry. I miss the future I dreamed for all of us.