i am sometimes amazed — actually, i am usually amazed — at grief’s potency. and lately i’ve been feeling, worrying, that other deadbabymamas feel their grief more keenly, more truly, more regularly than i feel mine, and that this means i am somehow inadequate.

sometimes when i read very moving posts i think i remember feeling something vaguely that way. but those feelings seem so far away. how long has it been since i’ve been sad? since i’ve cried? since i’ve wailed?

i remember my grief therapist telling me once that grief never goes away, it just becomes a place that you visit instead of a place you reside. and that when you visit it, your visits can still be just as deeply emotional, just as terrifyingly sad, but they tend not to last as long.

so sometimes i wonder if that’s where i am: living this other life, away from grief, turning grief into something like a loved but distant relative. and then other times i wonder if i’ve somehow just incorporated all that sadness into my new life, if my happiness is simply less clear, less vibrant, less present, because it is grounded in such deep sorrow. so deeply grounded that i don’t even notice it anymore.

it hasn’t even been a year since mae was stillborn. (in fact, when boo is born it still won’t even have been one full year.) it has been three and a half years since effie was stillborn. and there were all the miscarriages before that. i suppose i should count myself lucky that after each loss, no matter the stage of pregnancy, i never had to wait as long as a year to conceive again. i am lucky that conception has been so easy. i really know that, i do. and yet i am so very unlucky — not to mention still righteously pissed off — that gestation has been such a bitch.

maybe it’s not surprising that what i think about most of the day, most every day, are the two living children i have. (am i tempting fate to call boo “living” while he’s still merely in utero?) and while i hope hope hope that li’l boo is coming to stay, and while i remember all too well the reasons i have for worrying that he might not, i still find myself caught up in the pleasure of life: not mine, which still so often feels so very heavy, but my children’s. their little living bodies bring me so much pleasure. is it wrong of me not to feel the loss of the two that aren’t here?