Harper, Harper, Harper

Dear Harper bean,

I ran into a neighbor today who had not heard about you and kindly and cheerfully asked, "How is the baby?" I had to tell her about your birth and your death, and I managed to smile and keep it together through the hugs and the conversation and the sympathy. But the entire way home, I kept replaying the conversation in my mind. As I reached our front yard and saw your azalea bushes, whose flowers are now brownish-gray and dreary, I realized what was bugging me.

I had forgotten to tell her your name, Harper.

And then the tears came.

I'm sorry, bean! I know I promised you I would tell everyone your name, so you would never be forgotten, and I felt awful that I didn't. I know that wouldn't have mattered to you, since your priorities in life were being swaddled and cozy and held with a finger to hold, but it matters to me, little one.

After I dried the tears, I forced myself to take a shower and run an errand. As I got into the minivan we bought just for you (well, for you, your brother, and the puppies), who should be on the radio but our old friend?

Yes, I was parked while taking this picture...

I feel like I should send him a photo of you and let him know how this stupid song always seems to be there to cheer me up. You would look adorable, little bean, if I photoshopped Hammer pants on you!

I'm so sorry I forgot to tell her your name, my beautiful Harper. I'll do better next time. Promise.

I also wanted to let you know that I found out today that I have let go of any regret I feel about spending nine months pregnant, only to lose you so soon. Not the regret of losing you - that will always be there - but the bitterness over the pregnancy itself.

"How is your child?" asked the woman at Weight Watchers as I told her I'd suspended my membership for being pregnant.

As much as I'm not thrilled with having all of this baby weight and not having you here to keep my mind off of it, this exchange made me realize that my fleeting thought that those nine months were a waste of time has been burned away by the gladness I feel for having had a chance to meet you.

I will never regret meeting you, Harper.

Love, Mommy

***

I had a revelation today while doing laundry. I often have revelations while doing laundry. I think it comes from detesting it so much. My mind wanders so I don't notice how much I absolutely hate doing laundry, above any other household chore.

But I began thinking, and overanalyzing, and overthinking, about how I was feeling at that given moment (the answer, by the way, is I was feeling fine, beyond annoyed at the laundry).

And I realized that after so many intense, horrible, raw emotions in such a short period of time, I had just run out. Not empty, exactly, not numb. Just tapped out. Like it was physically impossible to be that sad. Or angry. Or overwhelmed. As if the grief has burned out my nerve endings, and I just no longer had the capacity to feel that depth of sorrow. At least, not right now. I am assuming some day that will come back, the way my legs eventually regained feeling after my c-section.

I suppose it's a survival mechanism, the inability to sustain such monumental grief and sadness for too long a period. Some sort of sensory adaptation. So maybe it really is OK to feel fine each day. Or, in any event, not to feel swamped by sadness.

It has done nothing to stem my aversion to laundry.

(As I was typing this, cousin Jean just made a similar observation. I'm guessing hers didn't involve folding sheets!)