I do not want to remember the labour, the pain, the bleeding, the enormous feeling of failure. I just want to remember how alive I felt when I held him, how his little body was perfect in every way, and so beautiful, so soft. Every facial feature was making me guess its origin, in my own parents, in my brother, in MrH and his parents whom I never met. He was so delicate and warm from my body, almost alive...
I do not usually post pictures of him because his pictures are something so intimate for me, but for a brief time, I will post this one, one of three pictures that I had time to take with my iphone before they took me to the operating room bleeding. I cherish it so much, it is very dear to me, and I am only posting it here because I trust that it will inspire love in those reading my blog, not fear or sadness or pity:
On that day I learned that I loved him more than I thought I did. I learned that he was part of my body and soul, that my life was his, and still is as far as I can make it. I learned that we lost so much, so much. And I learned that pregnancy was a miracle, that my body, faulty as it was, had managed to feed and protect him until he became the miracle that he was from a tiny embryo. He had beautiful little hands and feet, and strong thighs, tiny muscled shoulders, and a cute little nose. His toes were definitely mine, and so was his determined facial expression. His forehead was more like MrH's, and so was the abundant lack of hair.
Adrian has taught me to be tough and soft at the same time. He has taught me that I can survive and go on despite enormous loss. He has taught me that I wanted to be a mother more than I wanted anything else in life. His pregnancy has taught me to be calm during my subsequent prolonged infertility, knowing that it would happen someday, and once pregnant to trust my body despite the bleeding, to believe that the seemingly never ending nausea will end eventually, to enjoy the weight gain and the thickening of my waist, to love losing myself while becoming a mother again. I love you baby, my first son. May you rest your little soul in peace.
Until we meet again,