I never know what day to count as my “angelversary”*. Do I use the date that she died or the date of the evacuation? I think for me, the most traumatic day was the day she died. So I guess I’m a few days late for this entry, but whatever.
Up until December 26th, I had been stuck in the past. I kept thinking “This time last year, I was…” Happy. Pregnant. Planning a nursery. Choosing a name for my baby girl. All those things that a happy pregnant woman does. I know it was masochistic to keep revisiting, but I couldn’t help it.
On the 26th, the anniversary of our DX, DH and I sat around in the morning, remembering what happened that day and what we remembered. It was sad, loving, and powerful. And that was it. I didn’t dwell, didn’t take an anxiety pill, and spent the rest of the day normal.
I can’t believe it.
New Year’s found me a little sad, but we ended up with a special toast to 2013: we flushed the toilet. I seriously pooped in the toilet and flushed it at midnight.
January 2nd was the day her heartbeat stopped, but it was also the day that DH went back to work (from home) after months of being on disability. I didn’t really have time to dwell Thursday. Friday, I went out with my MIL and did a little shopping, so again, I didn’t have much time to reflect. I do find it a little odd that of all the tv shows I could be watching, I find myself back on Kitchen Nightmares, my go-to baby-free entertainment after the procedure.
So here I am. I don’t remember too much from last year, but I do know that I never thought I’d be this… healthy. This strong.
But you know what. I hate being strong.
I struggled with whether or not to post this picture, because this is so private to me. This is all I will ever have of a child, of my daughter. It still hurts to look at. I don’t think it will ever NOT hurt.
I can’t share on Facebook. Too many people. Too many stupid comments. I don’t want to be reminded with every “like” or comment. It was hard enough when I (DH) made the FB announcement that we lost her.
The footprints remind me that I really, truly was pregnant. That I just didn’t make it up.
* I hate the word “angelversary”, but so many people use it that it just happens. I don’t like referring to my daughter as an angel, either.
P.S. There is a theatre that is spotlighting women’s work, specifically on motherhood, and I was thinking of submitting something. A poem? A monologue? A dialogue between my ego and Id? I don’t know. I’m thinking of sending the producer and asking her what she thinks, but I don’t want to commit to anything that I won’t be able to handle.