Sometimes it’s like you’re still just waiting, waiting for the baby to come. Back then wasn’t much different to now – or at least the now when you get lost in something for about five minutes to the point that you actually forget for a second. And then it’s like a brick hits you. Really hard. Like right in the face. And then again, but in the stomach. Your baby died.
Its so surreal. Like more than surreal. I don’t know what that word is. You catch yourself realising that your baby has died, as if it’s the first time you’ve realised it. And it’s so unrelatable, so unthinkable, that there’s no possible way your brain will actually believe it. It won’t let the truth resonate. It rattles around in your head for a moment, rebounding off the surfaces, trying to find a place to stay. But it doesn’t fit, there’s no room. No comfortable place to sit and sink in. So it floats away.
And what’s comfortable is just plodding along, going about the day to day, not really connecting with reality, with the concept that your baby died. So you sit in this slightly disjointed view of life, as if you’re seeing it all happen through a dirty window. You know there’s no baby but through the dirty window view of the world this seems normal, you’ve adjusted to it.
And then. Smash. A brick through the window again.
I guess one day it’ll fully sink in. And you’ll realise it all the time. And your stomach won’t get hit with that massively sinking feeling every now and then. Right now, maybe this pattern is just self protection. Avoidance. Denial. Whatever it is, it’s exhausting.