Acceptance?

The anger is for the most part gone now, and while I know I will grieve for the rest of my life, my grief seems more rounded and everyday. The sharp edges are less pronounced. 

I suppose I’ve found a sort of dull acceptance. I know they’re not coming back. I know they can’t. I miss Emmet, I always will. 

Every moment of my life is now coloured by their absence. Every family photo will have a gap, every photograph I see of myself there is no bump, no Emmet. We won’t meet them on the 22nd June. Instead that day is just one we will have to endure. 

There will be no baby of my own in my arms next month. And that hurts like nothing I can describe, the idea that June is only just around the corner makes me feel hollow. 

Time has passed and left bits of my heart behind somehow. 

I don’t want to pretend that Emmets due date isn’t happening. I want to do something, mark it somehow rather than hiding and burrying my head in the sand, but despite hours of research amd blog posts I still don’t know how to face it. 

We have kept our grief so private (except this blog, and that is not publicised to our family or friends bar a select few). A public show seems almost impossible. A grand total of 5 people other than my partner and I even know Emmet existed. Their brief time on earth was so quiet and so short. 

My partner and I have agreed that we tell anyone who we feel comfortable telling, but family has to be a joint decision.

I can think of so many things I wish I had done differently during my pregnancy. I wish I had told people for starters, screw the 12 week rule. 

I wish I had told everyone. I wish I wasn’t scared and ashamed to do so when I was pregnant.

I wish society didn’t make me, and people like me feel ashamed for loving.

I wish I could go back and tell my partner as soon as I knew. I will regret that every day for the reat of my life. 

I wish I had been prepared somehow. 

I wish I hadn’t taken forever forgranted, but how was I to have known?

I wish my mother would understand and that I could talk to her. I wish people weren’t such judgy assholes about young mothers. Young doesn’t mean bad.

I wish I had more photographs of me pregnant. I wish I had photographs of them.

I wish they had stayed long enough to take photographs of them. 

I wish I knew if they were a boy or a girl. I thought maybe a boy, but really there’s no way I could have known. my mother thought I was a boy and that my brother was a girl (no gender scan) so by that logic then they were probbably a girl? She joked as kids that maybe she had been half right because my brother is ao gentle and I’m such a tomboy.

Anyway, as interesting as that particular tangent is to analyse, I’m moving on.

I wish a million things, but most of all I wish I could just hold them, have them for one more minute. I wish I could tell them I love them propperly. Not just in thought, or prayer or when I light a candle. 

Well, if wishes were snowflakes I’d have a blizzard. 

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