We've been going to the park, where this happened, as a family lately. I tried to go once, as discussed in this post, to cry alone before I took Caroline, but it didn't really work out.
After feeling my stomach knot up just by driving around the park for over a year, one day I finally decided to go a few weeks ago. It was pretty uneventful, actually: Shannon took Caroline, and I met them over there. Caroline was pleasantly surprised: "Mommy's here!" And then she proceeded to do all kinds of tricks that she's probably been doing for a while. It has truly been a lost year.
Of course, she asked me to push her on the swings: the exact location where my heavy bleeding started last year. I gritted my teeth and did it, and I survived.
I will never have a carefree afternoon in that park again. Last week, I learned that Caroline won't either.
Caroline was 2 years 8 months on that horrible day when I thought I was going to have a very public miscarriage. I figured a child that young wouldn't remember things. I was mistaken.
Last week, we went to the park again, and Caroline rode her bike (big girl!). We were having fun, just chatting and moving along, when she said, "Mommy, you're not going to get hurt at the park again, are you?" Cue the stomach tightening. Knowing the fragility of life now, I can never assure her of that, so I simply told her that getting hurt at the park again was very unlikely.
Then she said, "You had to put your pants and your shoes in the shower." Oh Lord. That carnage is imprinted in her mind.
If you haven't read the first link above, what happened was this: I bled so much that the blood ran down my legs and soaked my shoes, so I just got in the shower with my clothes on. In retrospect, I wonder why I even bothered to shower when I didn't even know if my baby was alive at that moment. I guess it was the only thing I could control at the time. Oh yeah, and Caroline was screaming, "Mommy, clean it up!"
So she had that mental picture of her panicked, bloody mom as we walked to the park. How sad that such an innocent, childlike experience is so marred for my child.
We got to the park and happened to run into a good friend. Her daughter is one of Caroline's favorite playmates. I'm always glad to see them, and I'm grateful that I was able to focus on something other than Caroline's and my anxiety that day.
There was another man there with his granddaughter. They seemed familiar. I heard him call her name, and then I remembered: they were there that day. The little girl is, of course, much bigger now. But they were on the swings right next to us when my nightmare started.
My panicked call to my midwife that day occurred just yards away from these two. Somehow, I remember thinking at that moment that he sure got more than he expected during a routine park trip. Didn't we all? And, of all people, I remember them. I don't even know if I'd recognize the angel who drove Caroline and me home that day.
Wouldn't it be so great if I could take Weston to that park? It would be cathartic: here is the miracle baby in the very place where I thought I was losing him.
I wonder if that man remembers. Not necessarily my or Caroline's appearance, but the fact that he once witnessed a woman bleed and scream into the phone about her unborn baby while her toddler looked on, also screaming. I wonder if one remembers when such a thing happens to a stranger. Or if they would just think, that woman is crazy. I don't know why it matters, anyway; he was not in a position to help me that day.
Lately I've been thinking about how depressing this blog is. We're supposed to make something beautiful out of tragedy. We're supposed to have confidence that God is doing something wonderful. Isn't that what they say? Well, there's just not a whole lot of beauty that comes from losing a child. Every time I stop and think, this is a beautiful moment/I must remember this forever/this is what life is really about, it is immediately followed by sadness: Weston will never experience this/Caroline will never be able to share this experience with her brother/we will not see our son grow up.
Another bereaved mother, 4-5 years out from losing her child, recently wrote that it doesn't get better. We don't get better. We simply learn how to better deal with the pain and get better at hiding it. It's true: six months ago, I was missing my eight-month-old son. Now I miss my fourteen-month-old son. Nothing has changed except his age. The difference with me is that I know what to expect. Now I know what feelings are coming with Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc., and I know what I need to do to survive those days.
I've discovered that trips to the park don't get easier either. Now I just know what to expect when I go.
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