New

Last week we had our first encounter with a new aspect of grief.  Kyle's best friend told him she is pregnant.

She is a kind person.  A good person.  She was by our side when Ramona died.  She raised over a thousand dollars for our March of Dimes fundraiser.  She sent me a necklace I wear every day, an infinity charm coupled with a letter R charm.  Yet we can't be happy for her right now.

We both feel terrible about it, but there is no joy on our end.  We are just too sad, jealous, and angry at the universe to celebrate a child that is not ours right now.

It just happens that she is pregnant on our timeline with Ramona, too.  Not good.  At all.

The hardest part about dealing with other people's pregnancies is the attitude that there will 'always be pregnancies and babies.'  So that means we should suck it up and deal.   We can't stop people from getting pregnant, so let it go.  I wish it was that simple. 

In the weeks after Ramona died, we watched a lot of TV.  Mostly Seinfeld reruns.  We watched Community again in it's entirety.  There's an episode where one of the characters, Britta, has to be restrained from hooking up with an old boyfriend named Blade.  It's assumed Blade must be amazing in some way, so one of the characters, Jeff, decides he must know the secret to Blade's desirableness.  It turns out Blade is brain-damaged.  He literally has no shame and therefore does not care what anyone thinks about him, that's why women desire him.  Before this is revealed, Jeff grills Blade about his name, and why doesn't he change it, and Blade utters a line that is my new motto:  It won't change how mustard tastes.

Pregnancy, babies, and parenting are part of my everyday life.  I work with kids and parents.  My cousins all have young children.  My friends all had babies within a six month span of losing Ramona.  Yes, I am confronted with this every day, but it doesn't change the way mustard tastes.  Grief is still a bitter taste on my tongue today.  No matter how often I see a baby carrier, no matter how many cute stories people tell me about sons, daughters, grandkids, nieces and nephews, no matter how many pregnancies are announced and how many pregnant bellies are in my face, each instance is still a slap in the face and cause for anxiety because my daughter is dead.  

Pregnancy is a part of life.  Babies will always come.  Friends and family will become parents and never know the pain of losing their own child.  These things are all true, but they don't change the way mustard tastes.   

I will always be thankful to the people who celebrated Ramona with us while I was pregnant.  The people who were excited, who sent gifts, who told us what great parents we'd be.  I can't return the favor, though.  Not right now.  I cannot celebrate another pregnancy.  Mainly because I'm selfish, I'll admit that, but also because pregnancy is not a promise.  Pregnancy does not equal a living child.  Pregnancy is a gamble, a risk, and we know that first hand now.  Before anyone tells me that statistically I'm one of the few, please tell that to every person I have met face to face, the people I cling to online, the countless faces of loss.  I can't celebrate something equivalent to Russian Roulette, not when I've come out on the losing end.  That bullet is lodged in my brain forever.