Gideon is 10 months old today.
10 months. It seems such an age. I can’t even imagine how he would have looked at 10 months; how it would have felt to hold him, watch him laugh and smile at me.
It’s strange. I can’t imagine every being pregnant now. I know I was – for over 6 months, and in the back of my mind I remember feeling the morning sickness, the kicks, the rolls, hearing his heartbeat, seeing him kicking around on the screen, watching my belly grow with him.
I remember all that, but it’s like a dream. Something I read about, or something I watched on TV. A fantasy perhaps, like winning the lottery. But not real. I can’t imagine ever being pregnant.
And I certainly can’t imagine ever being pregnant again. It feels like something that happens to other people, happier people, luckier people, normal people; people with happy, normal lives and families. I try to imagine taking a pregnancy test, one day in the undefined future, and seeing two lines, and I can’t. I try to imagine going for a scan and seeing my baby in there and I can’t. I try to imagine feeling a baby kick inside me and I can’t. I try to imagine holding my living, breathing, healthy child and taking them home and it seems more likely that I will win the lottery, or get hit by a meteor.
I don’t just feel that I will never have that, I feel it is an impossible dream. I can’t imagine it. The time when I was pregnant seems like a dream, nothing more, a short time when I was more than an unlucky woman, a woman who has experienced so much unhappiness, who lives in chronic pain every day. For those short months I was normal, like everyone else. I could actually relate to people who were pregnant, people pushing their prams, people talking about their children, I wasn’t so impossibly different, so impossibly unlucky. I felt human.
My time had come and I was at last getting this special gift.
But in my heart, I knew it was too good to be true. There was NO way I was going to have a normal, healthy pregnancy with a healthy baby to take home at the end. I knew it, my family knew it – it was too good to be true.
And now 10 months later, all I have is those dreamlike memories of my normal. The normal that ended the moment my waters broke, the normal that I said goodbye to when I stood over my son’s incubator and watched him suffer.
I’ve accepted that I don’t get normal now – it’s not for me. My life will never be perfect 2.4 children, my own home, boring family life etc etc. But does that mean I can’t have my pregnancy and an earth baby too?
I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine ever being pregnant again.
Let alone bringing home a healthy baby.
And right now, I’m not depressed about it. I just sadly acknowledge it. It may never happen for me. Somehow I must accept that.
Happy 10 months my perfect little boy. You were my glimpse of happiness. My angel of Joy.
And my soul sings for the love I feel for you and the 17 days we spent together.