The chorus has been with me since I was a young girl navigating the vicissitudes of a suburban childhood, all the way up to and through my present day life as a loss mom who has stumbled upon what appears to be her wildest dream. What is the nature of madness? people ask me. My eyes wander as I contemplate the planes that make up visual space. I’m not a regular girl; I’m a itty bit stranger.
My mood is tanking. The unfettered and obsessive worries of the first trimester have made way for flattened affect and spiralling darkness. I find myself overwhelmed by the enormity of lifestyle changes, changes made despite uncertainty, no guarantee of a baby to hold in my arms. The chorus chortles gleefully as I lay prone on the bed. Why do you even bother? Your babies just die.
I navigate the world like I’ve been blinded by the infrequent sun, feeling my way around my apartment with tingling fingertips in a suddenly chaotic environment. My emotions are for the most part muted; I believe that right now I am overmedicated but it seems to be the lesser of two evils (the other being a state of sheer panic and terror of this new life I’ve stumbled into). Still, there’s a horrible anguish as this pregnancy harkens back to the days I spent with Molly. I cry a lot when I’m alone. I never believed in afterlife, heaven, angels — now, with six dead babies I am forced to. It’s an uncomfortable alliance with the spiritual realm, because for three long and dreary years I have prayed only for death, to be with my babies.
If I have this baby, will the world take me back? I fear I will stumble, make some sort of tragic mistake, but I think it will.