Today I'm back to wishing I had died in childbirth.
This is too hard.
I miss him so much.
We caught the end of Slumdog Millionaire on tv this morning. The part where it flashes to the two children dancing together on the train platform at the end -- it had me crumpled into a ball on the floor, wailing and sobbing. (Though, to be fair, I had already been there a few times already this morning.)
The thought that kept devastating me, as I watched that scene, was that my boy will never get to know what it feels like to fall in love. To dance with a best friend, full of joy, exuberance, life force.
And that I may never know those feelings again either.
I had so many hopes. So many dreams. So much love for him. The love remains. The hopes and dreams are totally and completely shattered.
While the autopsy results (I will write about those at some point) should be providing me with "looking forward" hope - I could theoretically get pregnant and have a living child in the future (and the perinate assures me of this)- there is nothing specific to my pregnancy other than the trauma of the last five minutes of delivery that caused Otis to die - I feel like reading the autopsy and hearing all of that information has somehow shattered my hope more. That I will never get to love a living child like I love Otis. That I will never feel even hopeful enough to WANT to try.
What I am doing, feeling, being right now -- this is not living. And I can't see how it can ever feel any different.
Those last five minutes. He was with us until then. He was as perfect as I knew he was. With a shoulder that stuck in the wrong place, and all my love and all my power couldn't get him out in time.
I guess I'm no longer worried about whether or not I'm not grieving enough. Because now it feels like I will never get out from under this pain, and my worry is that I may not ever feeling like living again.