We’ve been home from the hospital for about two days now. In most ways, it’s a lot better. Being home with Ricky makes both of us focus on him and not on our baby girl’s tragedy. I can get outside and be in the sunshine and fresh air. For a moment or two at a time, I can feel like life is normal. And then I remember. And it’s awful.
Being home and doing normal things is good for me. I know this. It forces me to do more than sit in a hospital bed and wallow. But doing those everyday things and being back in this…more normal, I guess…state of life, it’s not easy. It’s a constant reminder that life keeps moving. That I can’t force time to hold still and I can’t go back in time to sitting there in the hospital, holding my baby girl, praying for some sort of miracle to make this not be our reality. So I breathe. It’s the only thing I can do to keep myself from falling apart when I feel the most vulnerable to the pain and sadness of this horrible situation.
I breathe huge, deep breaths – the same kind that I used to breathe through the contractions of labor. I fold a load of laundry, I tell myself to breathe. I make the bed, I tell myself to breathe. I clean up from dinner, I breathe. I give Ricky a bath, I breathe. It’s becoming more like second nature now, where I don’t have to constantly remind myself to take a deep breath every time I feel the tears start to hit the corners of my eyes.
Of course, this doesn’t stop me from breaking down throughout the day. It just helps to make it a little less often. It somehow makes the pain a little bit more bearable – sometimes I even pretend that I’m blowing a little bit of the pain out of my body and just holding onto her memory and my love for her, my little boy and my husband. It helps. And right now, I will take every little bit of help that I can get.