It’s the sort of comment that is so carelessly thrown out and it floats in the air weightless. If it finds a weakness, it sinks in at that spot, driving where it finds deep into the ground. Most of the time there is no weakness – no one knows from anything, and the comment just dissipates. Sometimes though.
“You never buy anything before the baby comes. God forbid something should happen and you would have to pack all of that stuff away. Can you imagine how terrible it would be?”
As it happens, I can. I don’t even have to imagine. I can close my eyes and just . . . be there. I can, if I want to, remember every single moment of it. The packing up of my maternity clothes and then giving them away 3 years later.
I can remember Mr. Spit dismantling furniture, I can remember hauling it downstairs to the basement, I can remember the people we gave it away to, I can remember repainting the nursery so that it could be my office. I’m typing this, sitting where the crib would have sat.
Every single agonizing moment.
I don’t have to imagine.
I got in the car after the conversation, and drove myself home, crying. Angry that I was still crying. It’s been so very nearly 7 years.
There comes this moment in grief where you simply become tired of it. Tired of the fact that Gabe is still dead, I’m still here, it still hurts.
If I am truthful, it hurts every moment of every day.
Not like it did.
Never again like that pain that first happened. But this pain that comes every so often is an echo of that pain. When the random pain from a weightless statement comes home and it becomes the heaviest weight you can imagine.
Not forever – but for a while. You pick up that terrible weight that you carried anew, or maybe it was always there – and you heft it along for a while.
I wonder, in the frustration of still this pain, still there, still hurting, still real –
Just why. All of those why’s. Why did I get pregnant? Why couldn’t I carry a child? Why did he die?