3 months

Kayla,

Even just writing  your name makes me cry.  I never get to write it.  I barely even get to say it enough.  Good thing I’m facing the window at the coffeeshop.  I have been writing about you, about how I feel without you here.  But I need to try to write TO you.  Last Friday I found out I am pregnant again.*  It is too overwhelming.  I feel like worrying about this new baby is getting in the way of the grief rituals I’ve set up for you.  It’s only been 3 months since you died, and here I am pregnant again.

I really hope this baby lives, or even has a heartbeat when I go to my first appointment.  I am so scared.  I wish you had lived, and I have to let myself think and feel that, even at the risk of “jinxing” the new baby.  I still want YOU.  Every day what I lost becomes more clear, even as my memory of being pregnant with you blurs a little bit.  I will never forget your sweet face, or how happy I was when you were growing inside of me.  But I know the details will fade away.  My memory has always been kind of bad. 

But even as I miss you so much, and cry for you every day, and try to muddle my way through life without you, I can’t help but feeling hopeful.  Will this new baby live?  If it does, will I love it as much as I love you?  I wanted so badly to get pregnant, and now I am.  And it didn’t take away any of my fear or sadness.  I know (so deeply) how fragile life is, but I also know how stubborn and strong it is too, which makes me hopeful.  We might might make it.  I know there is a very real chance we might not, too.  But it is ok to dream and let my heart hope a little bit too.  I know if we make it, it will only be because of you and the space you opened in our lives that gave us this great purpose.  I wish I could hold you right now, give you a big cuddle.  One thing I KNOW is that if this baby lives and is born alive, he or she will not replace you.  You will always be special.  And you will always be safe, so I don’t have to worry about you. 

I hope you are here with me, and this new little embryo.  I don’t think you are floating around on clouds or anything, that is not really how I view heaven right now.  I feel hope that you are all around me, in the clouds and the air I breath and the trees and the water.  I always felt “sunshine” when I was pregnant with you, that is the image I meditated on.  I thought it was because you were going to be my little summer baby, but now I know it was because your spirit was pure innocence and light. 

I printed off all of your photos today.  I cried and cried.  It seems so final, that this will be the only photo album I’ll ever get to make for you.  Your physical body and memory seem farther and farther away from me.  But in the 13 weeks since you left my body, I feel like we are more connected spiritually each day.  I’ve been looking at trees lately and seeing  you there.  You are all around me, every second of my day.  No one else understands or feels you in this way, not even your dad.  But the look in his eyes when he saw the positive pregnancy test on Friday was so sweet.  I could tell he was so happy, and it reinforced for me how happy he was to get to know you too.  He loves you just as much as I do. 

It’s been 3 months since I found out you died.  I have so many emotions today, missing you, wondering what my life would be like if you were here, 3 months old.  But I know I can’t really wish for things to be different---you lived a perfect life.  I can dream though.  Instead of  the life I dreamed about, I am here, alone, sitting in the sun at a coffeeshop.  Grateful for my own life and each breath I take.  More aware of life, of nature, of each blessing that I have.  Unsure of how to keep moving forward, unsure of what experiences await me.  I do know that I am strong--you taught me that. 

And now, a new baby.  Maybe.  I’m still processing that.  In my dream last night I dreamt of a baby.  It wasn’t you.  It was a boy, a little fatter than you and lighter-skinned.  He was alive and I was breastfeeding him.  It was so breathtakingly beautiful.  It gave me some hope, that I will be given the chance to mother a baby that can stay with my longer than you could. 

I am trying to not have any expectations, either positive or negative.  My baby might die.  My baby might live.  Those facts are equally true, all I can do is just let each day happen the way it’s supposed to. 

*If you are reading this blog as someone who has also lost a child, I am sorry if reading about pregnancy is upsetting.  But I started this space as a way to process my feelings about losing Kayla and I need to keep writing.  I considered starting a different space for this new pregnancy, but my life is already compartmentalized enough, I need one central place to write.