Again I sit at a loss for words. I've lost my baby and my ability to speak, apparently.
Sunday at church, every Sunday, this one couple invites us for dinner. So thoughtful and lovely of them, really. But. But. They have a passel of kids. Mostly 3 and under. Girls. And I can't. I just cannot. So we've begged off. Too many times. Not wanting to be rude and appear as a bunch of jerk faces, Jim took the husband aside and explained to him about our loss, and that I have massive social issues of late and cannot be around tiny children right now. He was so very kind about it. But I wonder what he said to his wife. I wonder if SHE understood? Or if they now think I am a total freak. (I am, but that's a different post)
There is such a paradox inside of me right now. I am broken and torn, and miserable and just a giant ball of ICK. But I also, at times have this wonderful positive tiny spark of hope. I hope we will conceive again. But no. I hope we will BRING a baby home this time. I hope I don't ever have to tell my kids again that their sibling died. That I failed.
I can't talk to people. I can't pay attention to what they are saying. I can't DO anything lately. All my friends and family are losing patience with me. I'M losing patience with me. My pain is so on the surface and palpable right now, more than ever before and it makes people uncomfortable. I cannot keep nodding my head, smiling and saying I'm fine. No one wants to hear how unfine I really am, and I cannot really talk about it anyway. I can write, sure, but I cannot speak about Leta right now. I just cannot.
I can't talk about how imaginary she feels. Where is the proof that my Daughter existed? It sits in a blue urn. In a box filled with obituaries, and tiny buntings. In my heavy, broken heart. That's all I have.