The newborn diapers that I ordered in anticipation of Harper's homecoming arrived today. They had already shipped by the night she'd died, so I couldn't cancel the order. Now they are staring at me, like a packaged accusation, wondering why there is no baby here to use them.
I thought a return to normalcy would make me feel better. But I'm finding the return to the life we had before to the commonplace actions of the day to day - dinner, housework, family, work - to be stifling and panic inducing. It starts out like a gentle scratch, relieving an itch in a soothing way, but then it gets harsh and painful, like sandpaper digging into my skin.
Maybe it's because things just shouldn't be normal when a baby has died. But I think it's more because this normal doesn't feel like the normal that should be. As if I've stepped into an alternate reality. Normal right now was supposed to be taking care of a newborn. Sleepless nights of baby cries and cluster feeding. Swaddling and swinging. Digging out baby gear from the closet, not putting it all away.
Talk of future plans, weekends away, weddings to be attended, projects at home or at work, sessions with my trainer, begin with pleasant anticipation until they become louder and clangorous because the only reason any of those things are happening is because Harper isn't here. And I feel her absence so strongly I want to scream and scream and scream. Or just cry and cry. But I'm running out of tears and that, too, feels like an alternate reality.
Interacting with people also provides an odd mix of pleasure and pain. On one hand, every hug helps, every friend stopping by reminds me that we are not alone, every conversation helps distract me from my own despair. Until the normalcy of each conversation hits me, and it feels so wrong, and the panicky hysteria starts rising in the back of my throat and my chest.
Getting through the logistical, mechanical part of the day has become much easier. I'm able to compartmentalize to get things done and, in some ways, lists and tasks and accomplishments provide some comfort from the sadness. We managed to get most of Harper's memorial service planned today and have a list of errands to run tomorrow.
I can carry on a normal conversation. Make dinner. Tickle my Shea. Laugh, even. Internally, my emotions are shifting with terrifying rapidity - sad, angry, numb, happy, sad, confused, empty, fine - I can't keep up with how I feel.
"That's grief," says Lou. "You can't control how you feel. It's perfectly normal."
I wonder if normal will ever feel right again?
I hardly have the right words, but I wanted to let you know that I'm here and that I've read every post. It only seems right since you were gracious enough to share Harper with me, and any others who have learned and grown and cried from the emotions evoked in this space.
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