Radio Silence

I apologize for the long delay in writing. In the immediate aftermath of losing Heston, much of my blogging silence was simply about pain. There was not much I could say except how much it hurt. To borrow again from Edna St. Vincent Millay, “time does not heal all wounds.” But it does lessen the pain.  As grief does, the wound eventually scabs over and begins to heal. 

Lately, it has been more acute. I am not sure if it is all of the baby preparations, or just all the pregnancy hormones, but I am in tears more now about our lost son than I was in many of the days after surgery. I am reminded each time I say “twins” how it is no longer three. I am not sure how to explain it, and to some it may seem unimaginable, but picturing and preparing for two boys now seems so very lonely.  One third of them is missing. In particular, I am worried about the birth. Our Heston must be born as well. By far, this is where most of my anxiety is centered. 

I have understood for a long time that men and women grieve differently. I also understood that mothers and fathers approached things differently. Experiencing these things for myself in my relationship with my husband has reminded me even more what a good man I married. I cannot brag enough on my husband. He has been such a rock and a comfort to me and to our boys. He takes care of me and of them each day when I am too tired to manage on my own.  He has worked hard on helping to get our house ready and he even thanks me for carrying our babies. While Brian feels the loss of our son, he, admittedly, was not as attached to his life as I am. He has said that he is sad, but far more grateful for the lives of our other two babies, and for my safety. He does not experience the pain of a mother, but he has not belittled it in any way. While allowing me my grief and sadness, he also reminds me to be grateful. And I am. Please do not think that I am not so unimaginably grateful and happy each time our two boy move inside me. It’s just that for some parts of some days, the wound in my heart hurts more than the joy can overcome. 

I think this is guilt. I feel guilty that my pregnancy has stabilized with two rather than three babies to carry. I am no longer considered high-risk and have been transferred to Twin Falls for care. I even feel guilty in buying a car and a stroller knowing that the difference between two and three influenced what we could afford to buy. Maybe it’s irrational. I just know that I would not have traded the life of my baby for the convenience of any of these things. Things are what they are. I know that.  Maybe it is that I really think that the loss of my son should be marked by things getting worse and not easier. Not that I want that. But the heart does not understand these distinctions. 

I don’t feel this way every day. Just some parts of some days.  And I’m still in the stage where, to me, forgetting any sadness means forgetting Heston.