September 17, 2010
I feel sometimes like I'm pushing my pain away with one hand, and grasping at it desperately with the other. So I'm afraid that, even when I allow myself to be sad, this ache I feel may be just the tippy top of my grief, just the fine edge of it. And one day I might be pregnant again, but I will be fully present this time, and then (especially if my baby is born alive), I'm afraid I might topple into all that grief over what I lost before, that I knew but didn't-quite-know was there. And I will drown. Or be impaled. Or suffocate. Whatever metaphor seems to fit best at the time. And... and what? And my brain stops there. Balks. Will go no further. Because if I did that, I would fail my child, my theoretical child who had -- finally -- lived, and who would need me more than ever to be a functioning person. And that thought is simply unbearable.