Memory

For the most part, I have a pretty good memory. Tell me about an event and I'll remember the date and time without having to write it down. I think of everything in terms of timeline and milestones. This ability has been a real advantage for me. That is, until I remember things that I don’t necessarily want to recall. Like how this week would’ve been when we found out the sex of the baby.

It’s been almost four months since the miscarriage and for the most part, I’ve moved on. I’ve been working out and learning the guitar. I’ve been immensely enjoying family time with EB and K. I’ve been happy. But then I remembered this milestone date and all over again, I felt slammed by grief and disappointment. Except the feeling was duller, more fleeting. In fact, it came and went; I was able to flick it out of the way.

But it still sucked. I’d been told that in the grieving process, it’s helpful to give the unborn child a name and even “talk” to her. I refer to the baby as a “she,” because although I will never know if the baby would’ve been a girl or a boy, “Julia” was the first name that came to my mind.

I wish you were O.K., Julia. I wish I could have met you, been able to hold you and watch you grow.