The Scene of the Crime
It's been almost two months since my baby died, and I spent this week in San Diego, the place where it all went wrong. Of course she never got to be a baby, only a fetus, but I'd been pregnant for months when we lost her, so she was very real to me. San Diego was really just a bit player in the whole drama, the backdrop to my own personal horror story. With its gorgeous sepia sunsets and cool ocean breezes, it's not the city's fault that it will always mark my Before and After. It is the place I go to in my dreams when I still think there is some way to save her.
I came in part to try to make it right, to paper over the terrible memory with newer, happier ones. I think it has worked to some degree, because I have been happy, here with my small family that seems like it may never grow any bigger. It's definitely paper, though, that is covering a gaping hole. The smallest remark can still cause a big tear, like when someone asks me if Eleanor is an only child. Or today, in line at the theme park, when Eleanor wistfully said she wished she had a sister who could go on the rides with her. One day I can tell her: oh, honey, we tried. So many years, we tried. Today, I was only left with: "I wish that too."
She's borne the weight of the sadness in our house without really understanding why, so it was also for her that we designed this trip as a solid week of Kid Nirvana: a whirlwind theme park tour complete with undivided parental attention. Watching her zoom and splash and dance around in sheer delight has been the best medicine in the world for all of us. We said "yes" to almost every request for souvenirs. We're going home weighted down with a bunch of new toys, animals, and doodads. But in every way that truly counts, we're going home a lot lighter.
I came in part to try to make it right, to paper over the terrible memory with newer, happier ones. I think it has worked to some degree, because I have been happy, here with my small family that seems like it may never grow any bigger. It's definitely paper, though, that is covering a gaping hole. The smallest remark can still cause a big tear, like when someone asks me if Eleanor is an only child. Or today, in line at the theme park, when Eleanor wistfully said she wished she had a sister who could go on the rides with her. One day I can tell her: oh, honey, we tried. So many years, we tried. Today, I was only left with: "I wish that too."
She's borne the weight of the sadness in our house without really understanding why, so it was also for her that we designed this trip as a solid week of Kid Nirvana: a whirlwind theme park tour complete with undivided parental attention. Watching her zoom and splash and dance around in sheer delight has been the best medicine in the world for all of us. We said "yes" to almost every request for souvenirs. We're going home weighted down with a bunch of new toys, animals, and doodads. But in every way that truly counts, we're going home a lot lighter.