Parenting After Loss, and other book titles that make me shudder

Thursday, May 23, 2013

(Written when Baby M was eight weeks old.) 

She has colic. She doesn't like to be put down.


"Parenting After Loss" is the title of a book. It shouldn't be my life. But it is. So here is my take on parenting a newborn after loss.

Colic? Doesn't faze me. A crying baby is a breathing baby. A crying baby is a living, emoting being that has succeeded in surviving outside of my body. When her cord was cut there was no hush in the room. There was a small, thin cry. It was a watershed moment. The moment I had dreaded because I was sure that when they cut me open, she would be silent and still.

There were complications with her birth. 

Uterine Rupture. 

A True Knot.


She came out blue, and I lost my uterus. 

There were complications.

But she is breathing now, full of wind and anger and red-faced and beautiful.

I have nothing but gratitude for colic. For whatever it is that forces tears from her eyes and breath from her body.

She will be the last. This is a definitive statement.

The first weeks were terrifying. I was convinced that she was dying. That something was terribly wrong with her. I slept with her because I was too frightened to allow her to be farther than arms length away. I stayed awake watching her chest rise and fall, each time praying that it would happen again. 

I would be lying if I said that I was over that now.

I'm not.

Every morning when I wake up and she is still here is a marvelous wonder. I think, O.K. we made it through another day. She is healthy and blooming.

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