Something to hold on to

Of the weeks and months following when S died, there is one really clear recollection I have, a random little event of the kind that you always think shouldn't still stand out in your mind, but inexplicably does.

In the autumn after losing S, on the way to a work assignment abroad, we spent a few weeks in Vienna visiting with H's friends and family (well, not all: my heavily pregnant sister-in-law, due three weeks after me, refused to see us until her own babe was safely in her arms, for fear it would 'jinx' her own pregnancy. She said just that in an email to my husband. She shamelessly incarnates the hurtful but widespread fear and superstition of pregnancy loss as contagion. For people like her, there are no words really, and thus I'll waste no more. For this is a post about another, more hopeful topic).

It was a difficult visit for me; in the depths of my grief, caught in a whirlwind of inescapable social engagements, everyone around me resolutely pretending as if there had never been any baby, like I had not held my tiny, perfect, 200 gram son in my hand and stroked his warm pink skin not months before. I remember many a morning sobbing in the shower as we prepared to enter that world of indifference and quiet fear. It was exhausting.

One afternoon I caught a brief moment of reprieve and spent the day wandering aimlessly through the shops in one of my favourite Vienna neighbourhoods. Aimless, that is, until one item caught my eye and tore at my already ragged heart. A Barbapapa onesie like this. I have already professed my fondness for these cute characters, and this was the sort of colourful, quirky item we would have delighted in for S. The thought, however, of my tiny, fragile son and just how much his body contrasted with the norm of the chubby full term newborn that such a garment demonstrated, the knowledge that he'd never wear or need any chubby baby clothes, sent me running from the shop in a rush of hot tears. I've often thought about that afternoon, over the many months as the early pain has considerably softened. And as profane as it sounds, I've often thought of that little onsie also, with something like melancholy.

You know why I'm rueful about that day? I wish I'd bought it anyway. Not because I wanted the baby outfit; at the time I had thoughts and love only for the baby I could never have, would never hold again, and the thought of a future pregnancy was unthinkable.

No, it's because I wish I had told that version of myself, deep in her pit of black despair and and grief, that even then - yes, perhaps most of all then - it was ok to hope. Recklessly, defiantly so. Because as the months have accumulated behind me, with their potential for pulling me deeper and deeper into that pit, it's this hope that has at times been the only thing that sustained me.

For the longest time though, I never really allowed myself to imagine a a future where we would parent a living child, at least not actively or in too much detail. Items that so blatantly speak of babies used to hold a magical, dangerous allure for me, like mystical talismans the presence of which could somehow deter the very thing for which we longed. Like fire, I was almost afraid to touch. Afraid, I suppose, of the return of those hot tears. Afraid also that such items would never hold any other value for me.
  

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This weekend, we did what I would have thought unthinkable only several months ago. We were out shopping for my nephew, the sweet little boy who should have been a playmate to our own sweet little boy, meant to be born just days after. When we'd selected and paid for a lovely set of books for him, our eyes both feel simultaneously on a very cool set of puppets. It was a large Peter Rabbit-like hand puppet who springs up from a series of individually quilted lettuce leaves, each of which nestles a tiny insect finger puppet - caterpillars and ladybugs and bumble bees. It was unique and adorable. And as we looked at each other, H did something very unexpected; he proposed we buy it, right then and there. Not for our adorable nephews, but for our own future child, something to remind and maybe even motivate us when the hope and optimism flags. And so we did. Mind boggling, really.

Again, it's not so much the item itself which holds significance, although I'm proud of us for boldly carrying it to the counter and buying it. Rather, it was the conversation and the realizations that followed, which felt like a profound juncture in our road to parenthood and our committments therein. I'll share the details later, as we process things, but suffice it to say that I was touched and amazed anew by the depth of feeling H expressed in our commitment to a family. 

I don't know yet what we'll do with this toy while we're waiting for a child to play with it. As I type, it sits on the table in the hallway, still in its paper shopping bag, unceremoniously deposited along with the rest of yesterday's purchases. And somehow the normality, the informality of that feels right. It feels brave even, like we're again defying the bad luck we might otherwise worry this cavalier attitude would bring. Stored away or out in the open, this item will be one that we can hold onto especially for our future child, for him or her only. S already has lots of adorable little things that have become just for him.

And so, we have a tangible symbol of our reckless, defiant hope and our determination to hold our one-day baby. What a long way we've come, (and how far we have still to go). But I've learned that no matter how much I try to distance myself from my secret heart, it won't make the disappointments that sometimes come any less painful, and I may be missing out on little moments of magic along the way.

For who we wish for. Source.

Bloggy friends, do you have a talisman of hope that you hold on to as a promise to your future self? That brings you hope for the children you will one day bring home? I'd love to hear about them, silly or symbolic or just plain random.