It’s been 20 months since Zia died, 20 months too long. I should be dealing with an almost two-year old, stressing over the potential replay of my son’s kind of terrible two’s. I sat in an outdoor play area this weekend past and couldn’t help but watch the many little girls, decorating their Easter biscuits with such care and precision, so unlike the boys, my son included, who is interested in such things for such a short time.
Boys are impatient to get into the play pen and roll around and wrestle. Most days I am content, living in the now, accepting that there is no other way, but there are days when the truth of my loss is just too much to bear. I think almost of the six months past, of baby Breeze, who I miscarried. He/she would have been here next month. Would that baby have been a boy or girl. I will never know. Just like I will never know what it is like to go to a boy band concert with my daughter or have mother daughter lunches and pampering sessions.
I will never do her hair and pick out pretty outfits and girly toys. That is a deep emptiness which will never be filled. No-one is likely to say she looks like me, there will be no stressing over periods, teenage hormones, boys being after her. She will never need mother to daughter advice on life and the way of the world. Those are things i can never experience, those are gone with her. Everyday I am grateful for my life, my family, that I have a living child at all but everyday I am still broken, still incomplete, still constantly missing.
I have slowly picked up the pieces of my broken life but it will never be fully repaired, not when there is such a big part of me missing. It is not easy living after the loss of a baby, although we do, we do proceed, put one foot in front of the other, pressing on as they say. But deep down we know that nothing will ever be the same. There is always a sadness, a deep deep sadness which you carry with you, willingly.