The other day a few people were standing around with a very pregnant co-worker, all talking about the pregnancies they had and how they felt at 8 or 9 months. I felt sick. I never got to 9 months, or 8. I will never stand around laughing and chatting at the memories of how big and awkward I was. I will never talk about my pregnancy at all without great overtones of sorrow.
Today I found out that one of my closest friends is pregnant for the first time. She was there for me when I was very sick in my first trimester, overjoyed for me in my second trimester, and there for me again through my loss. Even so, I cannot summon feelings of joy for her inside. I can only pretend. I definitely don’t want her to lose the baby, but I also don’t want to watch her not lose the baby. I have my Jo Jo, but it’s not enough until she’s adopted and I am sure that I won’t lose her. Until then, not only is loss the ground under my feet, it is also the sky threatening to fall down on me again.
And today is my 29th birthday. It’s cold and sort of gloomy out. I went out to lunch with my close friend and family. As usual, though, the people who are NOT here seem to leave a void that is much more palpable to me on a day meant to be joyous.