I almost feel that I no longer have the right to talk about Evan and the other three babies we lost. I sometimes feel that I should be “over” that. Over him. Over them. That my life now is complete and shouldn’t require reminiscing about the past. That it’s a sign of weakness. Something this evening prompted me to get out some of my journals and flip through them. I have a friend who is in pain. And I guess I just wanted to connect to her pain somehow.
I started a journal when I found out I was pregnant with Evan. I started that journal on February 21, 2005 with the statement “Positive pregnancy test and scared to death! Here we go again.” I ended the journal on July 9, 2005 with a few details of Evan’s memorial service and the signatures of those who attended. I wrote 15 pages in that journal during those 5 months. 15 pages to document a life. And some of the pages aren’t even full; just a few sentences. Evan’s ultrasound picture is on the cover. This journal rests in his box with his ashes and his footprints and the measuring tape they used to measure him. And that’s all I have of him. And I’m not “over” it. I’m not “over” him. There is a hole in me that will never go away. I try to hide it but it’s still there.
from May 9, 2005
“I love the idea of two boys running around the house in their little underwear with spiderman or whatever. I’m praying we get to meet this little guy. I think once I finally get him in my arms I’m not going to want to ever let him go.”
But I did have to let him go. And the world moved on like it should have and I had no choice but to move on with it. Because that’s what people expect. That’s what makes people comfortable. Eventually the world forgets. But I can’t forget.