No words

When I showed Lou my new, bright yellow SLO bracelet he mused, "Although I know it's probably for the best that Harper didn't make it [because she was so severely affected] I wonder if we've missed out on something." He went on to talk about an article he'd read summarizing comments from parents of special needs kids, and we talked about how life might be different if we were part of that community because of our child, how we might be better as people. What more she could have taught us.

There are the moments of missing Harper. Our bean. And then there are the moments of missing the-baby-that-Harper-wasn't. I'm having more and more of the latter. Those moments are sad. They make me cry. They make me ache.

Moments in every day life when I feel like I should be here, doing this, but I should be holding a baby. Moments where we're talking about future plans, and it hits me how different those plans are without a baby. Moments where I see very pregnant women, or parents carrying their newborns, and I'm hit with a burning wave of jealousy and sadness so strong it hurts to be alive.

I am still having trouble keeping my eye makeup on for the entire day. Even the best waterproof mascara can only hold up to so many tears.

Those moments make up only a small portion of my day. They are fleeting. They are powerful. They hurt and they wound. They are only moments. It is what it is.

I am looking forward to returning to work, in part, because my professional life is largely free of those moments. There are few moments at the office where I would find likely myself thinking "this feels wrong, there should be a baby here."

I am getting much better at responding to the inevitable question of, "How's the baby?/Did you have a boy or girl?/Are you getting any sleep with the new baby?" from those who knew I was pregnant but not Harper's story. Colleagues, neighbors, our babysitter. I tell them what happened, and I find myself smiling because, I think, I tend to be smiley by nature, because telling has become better rehearsed, and because memories of Harper make me smile. I wonder if those who I'm telling think the smile is inappropriate. That there's something wrong with me. I wonder if I need to work on a sad face to use when I talk about Harper's death.

Sooner or later, we will run out of people who don't know, and I won't have to say anymore, "We had a baby girl, Harper, but she died." Or see the shocked, pitying, horrified, sad, sympathetic looks and reactions.     I look forward to the day there are no more People Who Haven't Heard.

Yesterday, for the first time, we didn't receive a single condolence card, and I thought maybe this was a sign of the end of the mourning period. The settling into a new normal.

Until we received more today.

So many, many lovely notes that start, "I don't have the words..." or "I don't know what to say..." The thing is, I am also at a loss of words on how to respond to such kindnesses. To when people say, "I'm so sorry."

There's no good response. "Thank you" becomes inevitable, but isn't really what you feel. "Me, too." seems too glib, although maybe more accurate. "It sucks" is probably the closest to the truth, but feels inappropriate.

A friend who lost a parent recently told me that, even years and years later, she still doesn't have a good response to, "I'm sorry."

Maybe there just isn't one.

So I end up not responding. The emails, the messages, the notes. I don't know what to say, so I end up saying nothing at all. Harper has given me the courage to talk and share freely my feelings through all of the pain and joy of her existence. But for this, she has given me no words.