One month ago, at 11 o’clock at night, Ada was still inside me.
One month ago, I had been in labor for about 25 hours, in the most pain I have ever experienced, vomiting from the medicine and from grief and shock. The pain was incredibly frustrating because there was no light at the end of the tunnel, no happy outcome to look forward to. I would have gone through anything, I would still go through anything, a hundred times worse, to have Ada alive at the end, but she was already dead, had been dead for a week.
One month ago, in about one hour, Ada was born and I got to hold her. The physical pain ended but I didn’t even know what to do, my heart hurt so much. I was so afraid to touch her, I thought she would break – she was so tiny. I love her so much my body shakes. Her tiny hands and feet, her tiny face – I’m so glad I was able to touch her a few weeks later at the funeral home. I’ll never forget the kind woman who told me it was ok to touch her, who helped me think to bring clothes for her.
In this month, the damage to my body has almost healed. I have nothing to show for Ada but a very faint lina negra and stretched out skin over my belly. In this month, the damage to my heart has gotten a little better. It hasn’t healed – this wound won’t ever heal – but I’m getting used to having a piece of me gone. I’m getting used to holding the pain inside until I get home and can let it out. I’m getting used to throwing myself into tasks so I can try to feel normal for just a minute. I’m getting used to the sleepless nights and forcing myself to eat when I really don’t feel like it and forgetting what I’m doing at any given moment. I’m getting used to accepting whatever kindness and happiness I can get – it’s the medicine I need to live.