Everyday

A while back, one of my Facebook friends said, on a status about having to call the insurance company to tell them Psalm had died, that it's the everyday things that get you the most.  He was right, of course, in more than just dealing with the insurance company.

I didn't commemorate a week of her death, or a month.  Her due date was commemorated with her memorial service.  I don't foresee myself especially marking three months, or six, but perhaps I will.  Right now, grief is at the same high level every day, and there's no reason for me to stop and say "Oh, it's been this long", because it all feels like one long day.

Still, it's the everyday things that get you.  The van is parked, broken down, and to go anywhere we walk half a mile to the bus stop and as we go I feel Psalm's lack; she should be tied to my chest in the mei tai, carried along up next to my heart.

Halloween is a favorite holiday of ours (as so many other people), and when I first found out I was due in late October I started thinking of a teeny tiny Halloween costume and it fucking sucks to be walking through Wal-Mart and see all the tiny little Halloween-themed onesies and pajamas and have no baby to buy them for.

And there are babies everywhere; October is high time for them because January is so cold.  Some time ago, at Wal-Mart to buy some things we needed, I saw a tiny little brown-haired baby girl who couldn't have been more than a week or two old, as Psalm would have been, and I had to go outside and cry where her parents couldn't see me.  San Antonio is a bad town to have brown-haired baby girls make you cry, but I have since discovered that seeing any newborn hurts like hell.  Clearly, I should just stop going out, but of course that is not practical.

I can feel her with me.  Not a ghost, unless ghosts are a manifestation of the survivors' sadness, but she was my sixth child and after five children you know how a baby feels in your arms.  And my arms are empty, but I can feel where she should be; I can feel her small weight as though she were there, and perfect.  I think often of how much she looked like her daddy, and how dark and wavy her hair was and how like Marie she would be.  Strong, stubborn little girl.

Grief is a strange thing.

Sometimes it comes out of nowhere

I was listening to Pandora last night.  Otis Redding radio.  Motown, in other words.

A song came on.  "Little Bitty Pretty One."  And suddenly I was almost in tears.

I sang that song to all my kids but one.  I didn't sing it to Psalm.  There was too much else going on for me to think of singing to her at all, to be honest.  Singing to my babies is an intimate thing.  I've always sung their first song to them when it was just the two of us.  And it was never just the two of us.

But I did play her her song, "She Will Be Free".  So there's that, at least.

Not that it's enough.

milestone

Last week I hit 24 weeks.

Usually, this is a happy time for me, as for any pregnant woman.  Twenty-four weeks is viability, meaning that the baby has a greater than 50% chance of living should it be born.

Yeah...

I noticed it.  I always notice it.  It is usually accompanied by a feeling of relief. 

Not this time.  Just more sadness.

The good news is, at my midwife appointment I told Lauren about the ultrasound technician calling someone else in and the two of them loudly discussing what was wrong in front of me, and she was appropriately horrified.  I don't want to get anyone in trouble, but I do want them to know it was insensitive as fuck.  Hopefully they can look in my chart and find out who did the u/s and tell her not to do that again.

How do I say this?

Took the youngest two out to lunch yesterday and today, and the boy napped better than he has for a long time.

Because of the HG, I can't walk much when I'm pregnant.  But I think the outing may be enough to get Doug to nap properly.

So I want to say "I'll start taking them on walks when..."

When what?

First impulse: "Once the baby's here, I'll start taking them on walks daily."  But the baby's not going to be here.

So do I say "Once I'm not pregnant anymore..."?  That just sounds cold.  And wrong, even though it's factual.

In the end, I said nothing at all.

Well, shit.

Saw a joke about a "free tetanus shot"

Remembered the MFM specialist telling me the current recommendation is for pregnant women to get a TDaP booster with every pregnancy, because it confers some protection on the newborn.

Made a mental note to ask my midwife about it at the next appointment.

Realized it doesn't fucking matter.