Right Where I Am: 22 weeks, 6 days

Angie of Still Life with Circles has started another “Right Where I Am.” You can read about the project on her blog.

Impatience swells in me. When will my period come? When will school let out? When will I be pregnant again? When will I get the tattoo? Will when my life start?

As if someone has pressed the pause button and the display is blinking. Only the reel keeps turning and it ends up I am living—a life that is eerily familiar to what my own once was. I have stepped through a mirror and walked into an almost identical house but for the slant of light and an immense echoing emptiness. Everything is still in its place, but I walk by and touch the furniture as if I don’t know this place I inhabit.

Everything is still and heavy here. The slide of the dining room chair under my weight. The rough corduroy of the couch. My heart is made of the same glazed yellow pine as our cool, hard floors.

Impatience makes the clock tick slower. I know this but still I tap my foot, pick at my cuticles, pace from room to room. Screw this living-in-the-moment crap, I tell A when I come home. One-day-at-a-time is too hard. I don’t like this day. I don’t like this moment. I am living for later.

That’s okay, I tell myself. That has to be okay. They say anything is okay, any feeling, any manifestation of grief. Accept where you are.

Where I am: holding my breath.

It’s okay to hold my breath. To watch the display blinking, blinking. To wait for the future.

© Burning Eye

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10 thoughts on “Right Where I Am: 22 weeks, 6 days

  1. Lisa says:

    In so many ways I am holding my breath too. Biding my time until I get to try for the life that I envisaged for myself before. Abiding with you today.

  2. Kelly says:

    Beautiful. It’s so hard to accept where you are. 22 weeks, it’s so short. Thinking of you.

  3. tricia says:

    i know this. i feel this everyday. we went to my 19-week ultrasound to find out the gender of our baby, but instead we found out she was dead. she’d been gone for weeks.

    i’m impatient and angry and decidedly insane. i want to live in the tomorrow, i can’t stay in this present place anymore. i feel as if my soul has grown weeds, weeds with terrible barbs that rip at the shreds i have left. all i want is to see those two beautiful pink lines again, to watch my belly grow and move and swell. i hate being here, in this in-between where everyone else conceives with ease and has two more children before i can even bring one more safely into this world.

    i know how you feel. i am there too, in that place of living for later. your words are like the salve i so desperately needed today. thank you.

  4. amourningmom says:

    Whatever works is ok – there are no rules with baby loss. Wishing that none of us had to live in a world without our child/children. Sending hope and hugs.

  5. Jen says:

    Wow I feel like I could have written this. I often feel like I am holding my breath. What will the future hold? I thought I knew before I lost my daughter and now I am not so sure.

  6. cathjw says:

    It is okay. But I am sorry that you find yourself in this place, this place of holding your breath, where times can pass so achingly slowly and so much is shrouded in uncertainty.

    Your description of walking back into that eerily familiar life rang very true to me. I think I had imagined a life with both my daughters so very hard that there is still something eerie and peculiar about this life with only one of them here. When the light slants a certain way.

    I am so very sorry for the loss of your son, Joseph. My deepest sympathies to you and to A.

  7. I remember this. The stillness, the ticking clock, the impatience. Holding my breath. I am so sorry for the loss of your sweet boy, Joseph. Thank you for sharing where you are.

  8. Suzanne says:

    True this. Just today, I was watering the garden and trying to be present in the moment. But right now still hurts. I have had moments that have not hurt, but it took a long, long time. And I still have moments. Days. Weeks. When just being *hurts*. It doesn’t make sense.

    I’m so sorry about your little Joseph.

  9. Lindsey says:

    This is beautiful! Thank you for sharing. I think I will try this link up too. If you interested in another link up, I would love to see you link a letter you have written to your son at Linky Love Letters under Letters to Nora @ Stillborn and Still Breathing. I don’t think I’ve seen one from you yet. I would love to as I love your writing.

    Take care Burning Eye!

    • Burning Eye says:

      Thanks, Lindsey. I haven’t written any direct letters to Joseph. I write to him in my journal. I talk to him. I suppose in a way, my pieces “The Loss of You” are like letters for me.

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