Tears stream down my face, tears of the purest, sweetest longing I’ve ever known.
I look up and see Maud coming. She registers my wet face and holds her arms out to me.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice breaking. “It’s so sad, Cinda. It’s unbearable.”
Yes, it is unbearable, but not in the way she means it. I let her hold me, but I don’t know how to explain the joyful bursting I feel. This pure bliss is not reflected back to me by anyone. People look at me expecting pain, shock, sadness. All of that is here, but sometimes it is entirely obliterated by the magnificent white light that explodes through me. I feel invincible. My love has transcended death, survival. How could anything scare me now? The worst has happened, and I am still here, whole and alive like never before. I have a sense of calm I’ve never experienced, and an overwhelmingly sweet, sad, swelling in-loveness.
I feel strange about it, like there is something wrong with me for my unexpected happiness. For feeling so deeply blessed, the way new couples feel when they listen to sappy songs that must have been written just for them, knowing that all of time has been leading up to this moment, to this burning emotion that makes life clear and beautiful and perfect at last.
How can a mother whose baby was born with a fatal flaw, his organs weak and malformed, a baby who lived only five hours—how can this mother feel so happy, how can she cry with joy? How can this mother rejoice and feel blessed beyond anything she ever imagined? Is this a secret only the deeply bereaved know? Or is it the rare convergence of birth and death that has created this odd mixture of exuberance and extreme sorrow?
Maybe I am just experiencing the side effects of massive hormone swings, endorphin rushes like the ones I had postpartum with Jasper. Then, the newborn high was tempered by the awesome responsibility of caring for a helpless infant around the clock, an infant who could be cold, or hungry, or colicky, or stop breathing at any moment. But with Theo, there is no worry, because the worst has happened, and I am not responsible now, not afraid for his physical well-being. Does this account for the pure exhilaration? Or maybe, just maybe, I am feeling this way because Theo was as extraordinary as I believe he was, and being chosen by such a soul explains this otherwise inexplicable sense of blessing, of grace, this secret sense that I am the luckiest mother who ever lived.
*
But when the in-love feeling passes, I go back to my usual station these days—bed. Dix works on his laptop on the couch across from me; I need him near me. When he drives Kevin to the bus stop early in the morning, I go with him, even though it’s cold and dark. I’m terrified that if he goes out without me, something terrible will happen. I can feel the part of me that is bracing for another loss. I know the ground can open up under my feet at any moment. I know now I can endure more than I ever thought I could. But I pray I won’t be tested again anytime soon.
Let me learn the intimacies of this loss first. I am only beginning to know them.
January 27
I wake thinking I’m still pregnant with Theo; then reality reasserts itself with a violent stab. Can’t I just go back to December and be carrying a healthy Theo? How I longed for the pregnancy to be over. And now I miss having him with me, knowing he’s safe as I feel him gently turning in my belly.
Maud used to say, “You’re so lucky to have that baby inside you.” I never agreed, just complained and said how eager I was to get those months over with. Those midnight snacks he and I shared in the dark kitchen—if only I’d known they were all I would get. I stupidly assumed we’d have decades of meals together. I am left missing what I took for granted, the pregnancy—it’s all I got to experience of him, other than the five precious hours. Now my stomach is an empty balloon, my breasts small again.
Today I feel angry at my body for letting us down. Watching Dix with a friend’s three-year-old daughter is bittersweet. He is such a natural with kids, it feels wrong to think of him not having another child. It’s such a rare man who adores babies. Willing to go all out, change diapers, walk around on a sleepless night, nurse them back to health with exquisite attention when they’re sick.
Oh, why did I wait so long? Why did I have that abortion? Fear. Stupid fear. Dicken tells me he mourns for our unborn children. Oh Theo, we wanted more of you on earth. We wanted to hold your warmth, delight in your developing body, snuggle you close.
January 28
I wake in the dark, crying. Jasper hears me from his nearby mattress on the floor and comes right over. He holds me tight for the rest of the night, his warm body grounding me, rooting me to this bed, this room, this life.
In the morning, Dicken is getting dressed and reaches into his shirt pocket. He pulls out something, examines it, and comes over to show me. “Look,” he says, “the ultrasound pictures.”
I burst into tears and fold my head forward into my lap. Jasper comes over and kisses me and says, “Mom, you have a beautiful body.” I’m not exactly sure what he means or why he says this, but it makes me smile.
“I wanna show Grace these pictures of Theo,” Jasper says. He takes the prints and runs off into the main house.
Dicken lies down beside me on the bed. “Let’s go somewhere, plan a trip.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Kashmir,” I say.
“We could stay in one of those houseboats.”
“And I want to go to Tonga and swim with the humpbacks.”
“Yes, we’ll do that,” he says, his eyes glazed as if he can see some distant place. He turns to me, his gaze on me now. “I’m going to take such good care of you.”
“You already do. You always have.”
“But I mean now, you know, with everything that’s happened.”
“Don’t you wonder what will happen to us? If we’ll have another baby one day …”
“It’ll be wonderful, wonderful either way. If we don’t have a baby, we’ll have so much time for each other. We’ll travel, we’ll explore, we’ll work together. We’ll do everything together.”
“We’ll love our boys, all three of them, and celebrate each other.”
“Even if we don’t have a baby, we’ll have that. I’d be so happy just to have all that.”
“Me too,” I say, beaming. “Theo has given us this time together, and all this love and closeness we didn’t know was so precious until he showed us. He’s so generous.” I tear up, seeing happy endings everywhere I look.
Then there is a jarring sensation, like a plane that has been sailing along smoothly suddenly hitting a pocket of turbulence. I grab Dicken’s arm and cling to it. As long as he’s around, I feel safe. I’m not meant to be attached to him, I know. Everything passes. But how I long to merge my cells into his, take refuge forever in his loving presence.
January 29
My dad flies out to see us. I pick him up at the airport. After twenty minutes of him catching me up on his new girlfriend, silence falls between us. For the rest of the long drive back to the farm, the few conversations we strike up dead-end quickly.
“What are you reading lately?” he asks.
“Mostly poetry, and some spiritual books.”
“Oh. Are there any you can recommend? I rarely find anything worthwhile in those religious books. I have nothing against them; they just seem to put me to sleep.”
“I read them all the time. Especially when I’m down. I find them comforting.”
“Are you down these days? I thought you were feeling better.”
“Well, you know, it comes and goes.”
“Poor baby, I don’t like to think you’re down.” His face looks pained.
My father has always hated to see me suffer. I don’t want him to worry about me, so I think about reassuring him, as I always have, by saying something that minimizes my sadness. But thinking of how I have been able to withstand such deep, desperate, inconsolable feelings lately, I decide to let my dad be where he is right now.
January 30
I’m lying in bed. My incision is burning, and
my breasts ache. The milk seems to come and go, swelling and then deflating.
The door to the main house is open, and I can hear voices in the kitchen. My entire family of origin is here today, except for my brother.
Dicken comes in and looks at me. “Do you want something to eat or drink?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you want it quieter? I can shut that door. Or I can go get Maud and Cec if you want company.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I say. “I can’t figure out if I want people around or not. Sometimes it’s incredibly reassuring. Then the next minute, I’m annoyed with everyone and wish they’d all go away.”
“Your dad just complained that we never have any milk for his tea. I feel bad.”
I roll my eyes. “What does he expect? This isn’t a hotel!” I fume for a few moments, then point to my chest and say, “Maybe I should express some of this milk for him, maybe then he’d be satisfied!”
Dicken peers down at the carpet, frowning.
Thinking about milk makes the aching worse. My body doesn’t get it; it longs to nurse and care for and hold a warm baby. So much seems wasted—my leaking milk, all this love waiting for the little one. It’s a crime that a father as loving and nurturing as Dix is left empty-armed when so many healthy babes are neglected by lame, absent fathers.
“You sure you don’t want something to eat?” Dicken asks. “Someone’s heating up the lasagna Beth brought over.”
“That’s another thing. I wish everyone would stop eating all the food people are bringing for us. It’s so rude!”
“But you’re not eating it,” Dicken reminds me.
“I know, but something about seeing them eat what was meant as support for us seems so wrong, like they’re taking advantage of our loss.”
“I don’t feel that way, but I can see why you do.”
“Sometimes I can’t stand any of them, their nonstop talking and the whining about the no-dogs rule,” I say. “Makes me want to scream at them to leave! I just want to be alone with you.”
“That sounds good.”
But then my mom gets ready to leave, to fly to New York to see my stepbrother’s baby, and I cry hard, not wanting her to be so far away. I bring out one of Theo’s velvety baby-grows to send along to my new nephew, but Mom bursts into tears and says she can’t bear to take it with her.
I wave to her as her car disappears down the driveway.
*
In bed, Dicken kisses me everywhere, including my scar, my nipples, all so tender and exquisite. I’m so moved I bawl in his arms. In an odd way, these days feel like a honeymoon. We are eager new lovers, attached to each other like limpets again.
January 31
I yearn for a baby, yet I feel so weak. I can’t face the thought of another pregnancy, this time without the complete trust in the biological process that I had during Theo’s pregnancy (and ironically not with Jasper’s). Maud keeps pressing us to consider the idea of her carrying a baby for us. I think she’s mourning the third baby she hasn’t had. She was counting on Theo.
Sometimes the idea of trying again appeals a whole lot, sometimes not. I do think we’d appreciate and love a baby more than we ever imagined. What a special, adored child it would be, a miracle. At this moment, all the dreams I once used to fill the empty space—like travel, writing, pottery, more time with Dix—seem nothing compared to the joy a real baby in my arms and at my breast would be. But then I remember all the expectations for Theo that turned out so differently from the plans and fantasies. And I can’t help wondering if the message I’m supposed to be getting from all this is that yes, you are too old, be happy with what you have, don’t go for more and end up regretting it. Plus, even raising a perfectly healthy child is a huge commitment—time, energy, resources. Is that our yes, or is there something else we’re meant to be doing? A baby, a child, expands one’s heart and world, but it doesn’t solve any problems.
I feel dark, let down. Part of me thinks that since I’m being such a good sport about this—seeing the bigger picture, feeling blessed and grateful, trusting the process—shouldn’t I be rewarded? But there is still no baby. There is still this gaping hole, this wasted milk, these empty clothes on our shelf. My useless, scarred body. Fat stored and nowhere to go. Where’s the happy ending? Not in another baby—we’d have to let him go eventually as he grows up, just more gradually, like with Jabu. Not all at once, like with Theo.
*
In the night, I wake with a heavy sadness. I reach out and feel Dix’s face in the dark, running my fingers over and over his cheeks, and think, I don’t ever want to let go of this one, why is it set up this way, I can’t bear it. All this letting go. Can’t we have something that won’t be taken away? Not something intangible—my body wants a real physical thing that will never die. My Dicken, my true love. Funny how I cling to him so much more now than to Jasper. You’d think after losing a child, one would fear for the surviving children and cling to them.
February 1
People are donating to the Smile Train fund Dad set up in Theo’s name, which really lifts my spirits. This little one has made a brighter world in so many ways. Rhione thinks this is “big work” I’m doing, that it’s not just dealing with my own stuff. I’m amazed at how many people tell us of significant changes Theo’s story has brought them, even people we don’t know.
*
Every place I go on my first town run today marks a new milestone; I walk in and think, Last time I was here, he was with me. In the co-op, I run into people I haven’t seen yet. Most look at me nervously. I try to reassure them, want to tell them the whole story and insist that I’m fine, that all is well. But we mostly stand in our far corners and look at each other like strangers.
Jeff, father of a boy Jasper’s age, is an exception. He walks straight up to me. He looks me in the eye with compassion, never saying a word, and takes me in his arms. I start to cry as he holds me in the middle of the snack food aisle, this sweet man I hardly know.
A few minutes later, as I’m walking out the door, he comes running up to me with a bouquet of flowers. You just made it into my heart forever, Jeff.
Later, standing in the chilly playground waiting for Jasper and Grace to get out of their art program, I see Andy, who attends the same retreats I do. He looks agitated as his eyes register me, but walks over anyway.
“Hi, Andy.”
“Hello, Lucinda. I’m so scared to see you because I have no idea what to say, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“That was perfect.”
“Really?”
“I just want people to be honest, that’s all,” I tell him.
He smiles, sighing deeply, and gives me a big hug. We talk for a long time.
CHAPTER 18
February 4
Jasper is stuffing jelly beans in his mouth when I walk into the kitchen. A few minutes later, I see him helping himself to ice cream. For the first time in his life, he looks chubby to me.
“Jasper, I don’t want you eating any more sugary food. How about an apple?”
“Mom, stop being so mean!”
“But, I’m … I’m … I’m a little worried about your health.”
“Am I too fat?” he asks.
“Well … no … it’s just that …” I can see by his face I waited too long to say no.
“You’re being too hard on me!” he shouts. “You’re always too hard on me. I hate you! Go away!”
I freeze, not knowing if he’s right, if I am overreacting; or if he is just pushing me away because like any child, he doesn’t want to have limits placed on him. All I know is that I feel horrible. My vision darkens, and I can feel angry tears coming. I run to my room and slam the door. Dicken comes in a few moments after me.
“I don’t know how to parent the boys!” I cry to him. “Who are these out-of-control sugar-iPod-video-game addicts who have nothing in common with me? I just want a baby—I know how to parent a baby, it’s easy
for me. I’m good at nursing, I’m loving to newborns. But with the boys it’s getting harder and harder!” I sob and sob, let it all out.
When it passes, I ask Jasper to cuddle with me. He comes and lies next to me on the bed, looking curious and a little guarded. I apologize and try to explain myself. “I love you so much. I love your body, everything about you. You’re perfect. I wish I could show you how much I love you!”
He listens quietly, his face softening. He lets me take him in my arms.
Jasper and I hold each other all night. I feel the innocent perfect love we share, the newborn closeness.
February 5
Dicken and I go into town for my follow-up appointment with Dr. Moreno. In the waiting room, we sit near an obviously pregnant young woman. Part of me wants to look away and not acknowledge her, but I am also curious about what I feel as I register her and her full belly. I stare at her for a few moments and notice conflicting emotions: envy, pity, happiness, fear.
Another woman, who has just been at the counter talking to the receptionist and appears to be on her way out, glances at me and Dicken and says, “Look how sweet you two are, holding hands. Are you expecting a baby?”
I shake my head nervously.
“Well, it’s nice to see a couple hold hands,” she says. “How romantic.”
I smile but can’t think of anything to say. A few minutes later, after she is gone, I begin to have regrets. I wish I had told her why we were there. I want to run out to the parking lot and find her and pour out the whole story of Theo. I want to show her the photograph of Dicken holding him. I look at the pregnant woman and hope she’ll initiate a conversation, one in which I can find an opening to tell her everything. I don’t want to scare her, especially if this is her first pregnancy, but more than that, I want her, and everyone for that matter, to know Theo’s story, to know all we have been through.
A medical assistant takes my blood pressure, weighs me, and asks a few questions. Dr. Moreno comes in later, inspects my incision, says I seem to be healing well. She is unemotional, and I feel no invitation to share anything other than how I’m doing physically.
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