A is my lifeboat. A lot of babylost mamas say their spouse is their rock, but a rock is too hard, too rough, too heavy to be a metaphor for A. So I say she is my lifeboat. It is because I have her that I know I will live. Because we love each other, cling to each other, I know we will survive. We are both soft, bouyant, both adrift in this sea of grief.
In this one, we are afloat in a bathtub. One evening when I could do nothing else, she held me in the bath.
Little by little, I have overcome certain fears. Fear of leaving the house. Fear of running into someone I know. Fear of being asked where the baby is. Little by little, I have connected with other babylost parents, and I don’t feel so alone. Now, in this sea of grief where A and I embrace on our raft, there are other rafts, too. There is company in this lonely journey.
© Burning Eye