I was snuggling with V on the couch yesterday. He's getting so big, and with it so mobile. The snuggling doesn't happen often. I was looking at him, and marveling again (like I do everyday) at how perfect he is. From his cute little nose, his mischievous grin, to that glint he gets in his eyes when he chuckles. I thought, "My god, we are so lucky."
And just like that, I got hit with a sudden wave of grief. I just started sobbing. It's the first time I've cried tears of grief in such a long time now. He's so amazing; I can't help but wonder... what would the others have been like?
Most days I don't even think about the miscarriages, except in fleeting thoughts. I don't break down about them anymore. I don't sob hysterically for everything we lost, could still lose, or might never be. Most days, I spend wrapped in the world of V- changing him, feeding him, bathing him, playing with him, keeping him amused, cuddled, close. The rare moments when he naps, I find myself scouring the house. Then, when midnight hits us, we all tumble into bed exhausted. It feels like grief doesn't fit into our new life... but assuredly it does.
Sometimes I feel like I've been neglecting it. Like it's something I should be tending, another pet begging for attention, and getting ignored. Except, it isn't as demanding as it used to be. It asks for less and less of me. It's still there though. Most people can't see it anymore. As if my grief is a specter, living in the chambers of my heart. Hidden within me.
Who would they have been? Did I ever have a daughter, no matter how briefly? What is there left for me to hold on to?
Where else can they exist, if not in my heart.
I cried for a minute, maybe two. V grabbed my face and tried to snatch my glasses. I wiped my eyes, smiled at him, and said, "No."