What all those new mother and baby books and magazines, as well as all the somewhat well-intentioned but useless advice from people, don’t prepare you for, is what happens after your baby dies, they don’t tell you that someday, be it a year, two, three from that life altering moment, you’re going to lie crumpled up on your bed in the middle of the night crying about a life you never got to experience, crying about what should have been, what could have been, what should be yours but isn’t. You’ll cry until everything aches, you’ll cry until it feels like your tears are the blood draining from your body, leaving you limp and lifeless, you’ll cry and no-one will offer you a tissue, you’ll cry and it will fucking hurt, in every muscle, you’ll cry until you’re nothing but a snot nosed and red eyed mess, you’ll cry until everything goes blurry before you, no arms can offer you comfort then because no one can ever understand, and then you’ll cry some more because there’s nothing left to do but cry and hurt and want to breathe your last breath. Everything else will be more important and everyone will seemsto have bigger problems than you do, you are to be everything to everyone all the time, but who are you to you?
A stranger, you look in the mirror and you don’t recognise the person staring back at you, her skin is thinner than it was, she can feel the worry lines which are not visible as yet, her eyes are not the same bright and hopeful brown, they’re a sad brown, off colour, so much sadder than they’ve ever been, they hurt from fatigue, her mouth doesn’t curl up into an instinctive smile, no, her lips are set into a thin line, she applies makeup to much too tired eyes and brush the knots from her drab long brown black hair.
The stranger seems to look at me questioningly, probing for something, recognition maybe, I bet they didn’t tell her either, any of it, but especially, how lonely grief could be. They didn’t tell her that she would often cry herself to sleep, arms wrapped tightly around herself, afraid that if she opened them up even a little, and she would literally fall apart at the seams. No-one warned her of the miserable feel of wet cotton against her cheeks from her tear stained pillow and that even when he turned it, she would soak it yet again.
All this information was omitted and I grow increasingly frustrated about that. Someone should have told me it would be like that, someone should have said that the emptiness would be so unbearably heavy for me to carry, even three years since she died. Someone should have told me that it would literally hurt to be alive.