Missing…

Monday’s blow. I lost our baby boy on a Monday. No matter how hard I try, I’m always awake in the early hours of Monday reliving those moments, the moments of knowing it was over. The hysterical moment of seeing our baby for first time, being terrified, freaking out about what to do, how to get him to the hospital, knowing that it was too late and that there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do. I should be feeling my sweet boy kick right now inside me, I should be decorating a nursery and buying baby clothes, I should be researching the newest products, not researching on how to cope, how to deal with grief. Today I’m mad again, I thought I was over the mad, but I’m not. I’m angry that I’m not pregnant, I’m angry that I’ll never get to hold my son. I’m furious that my 3 year old will never have his little brother. Today it all feels like it’s not fair. I have nothing but a teeny tiny urn with the smallest smidgen of ashes you’ve ever imagined. That’s it. I don’t even have a memory of holding him because I never did, all I did was scoop him out of the toilet and lay him in a tupper – a tupper for goodness sake. I should have held him, I hate myself for not holding him. Now I cling to urn, not even the urn, but the box the urn is in, because I can’t stand to look at the urn itself. So I cling to box, a box that is now tear stained and frayed around the edges, I hold onto it for dear life and wonder if I can really go through with trying again. Is it right, is it fair, can I do it??