Four months ago on this day, I went into labor. It was a Wednesday. It was about one in the afternoon, and I was chatting with C. and A. on the phone, whining about how big I was, how uncomfortable and impatient I was. At the end of the conversation, A. jokingly told me “Don’t worry: in six hours you’ll be in labor!” We both laughed, and I got off the phone and took our dog Miles for yet another walk around the neighborhood, hoping the exercise and movement would get something started.
My good friend C. came over and brought us some cornbread and other stuff; I can’t remember anymore. I just remember not being able to eat much of anything without getting nauseous. We laughed and worked through contractions together, while Brian fumbled nervously with installing the carseat in the Subaru. D. and the girls stopped by to visit before our doula came over. I remember hugging little C. and little T. tightly before they left, remembering with vivid clarity when each of them was born.
I wished I had gotten my sling made, with the fabric I had picked out at St. Theresa’s that week, but figured I’d have a few hours on one of the first days home from the hospital to get it constructed while my mother-in-law watched over the baby. I knew as soon as we called they’d be down; it would be Easter on Sunday, and her school would be on break. And they were so excited to meet the Grandbaby. It felt perfect. I felt him wiggle and shift with each contraction, getting ready to come into this world.
It's hard. Every anniversary will be fraught with the "what ifs" and "if onlys" of a life lost. It's just difficult to remember to keep on living, breathing, to stay positive in the face of so much grief. Somehow we have to find hope again.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." -Kahlil Gibran