Saturday, May 14, 2011

Sometimes I cannot cry

These days I cannot cry as much as I would like to. Nine hours at work, and then cooking and doing the dishes is keeping me busy. I go along doing these things mechanically. It seems like there are two compartments in my brain. One in the front, one in the back.

The one in the front is processing things I know I need to do at work, and at home. In the kitchen etc. The one in the back is constantly playing a movie. Its almost like a still movie because there are not many images. Its mostly just one image, of my son - on the day I saw him from very close in the hospital. The day he was very well. I don't have a picture and I saw him from proximity just once so I cannot perfectly form that face in my brain. But I remember that brief encounter, him wrapped in a white cloth and his eyes closed. I had observed his soft skin and chubby cheeks and those cute lips and told myself how close he was to what I'd always imagined when he was inside. The nurse put a small tape like thing on his foot and he let out a small cry and his lips moved. Left side of his mouth moved and that's the first time I'd seen something like just did something to me. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this was MY baby. MY baby.

I wonder how it must be to take a baby home from the hospital after having given birth to. And see the baby growing - and see all those changes month after month. How does it feel to hold your own baby tightly against  your body? A normal average mother (who hasn't had a loss like us), how does she feel? How will I feel if I ever get to hold a baby again?

At times I keep thinking where my son is gone. What must be he doing now. I don't believe that dying is the end of everything. But if so, what happens then? He was just a baby. I knew him for 32 weeks. I can't say I knew him well. What kind of person he'd turn out to be? 

Where is he now?

This terrible block of grief that's trapped inside me and my inability to weep makes it worse. At time its so hard. Its always hard. When I realise that this pain is forever, and my baby is gone just breaks my heart over and again.


  1. I feel that sense of having 2 separate parts of me as well- the public version and the private version. The one who plasters on a happy face and one who cries in the privacy of her own home.

    I'm glad you have some memories of your little boy, but I know, these images are so difficult to grasp onto.

    Thinking of you.

  2. My grief has definitely changed from what it was in the first few months after Liam passed but I agree with you in knowing that this pain is forever and it sucks. I pray that one day we both will have the chance of bringing a baby home.