There comes a day when you finally begin to move forward from a great loss. I haven't yet reached that day.
It was three weeks yesterday since the twins were born. For three weeks, Poppy has been a pampered Grant Medical Center NICU resident. For three weeks, I have missed the feeling of holding my little son. For three weeks, I've wondered when things will get better.
Yesterday a representative from my doctor's office called to do a postpartum survey. She asked about the babies' names, whether I'm breastfeeding, and if I've suffered from any depression. I answered, "Well, my son died and my daughter's in the NICU, so I can't really tell. But, I still get out of bed in the morning, so I guess I'm doing as well as I can." I got the response I'm becoming accustomed to: silence followed by "Oh, I'm so sorry."
I still cry everyday. I think about Poppy growing up without her brother, and I can't help but wonder how she will feel about being the "surviving twin." For now, I can vividly remember the warmth of Spyder's body as I held him close to my heart, but I am terrified that someday I will forget how that felt. I stare at his picture and wish I would know what he would look like when he grew up. There are so many ways in which I am sad.
But, sometimes, my tears are happy ones. Poppy is healthy and happy and developing beautifully and safely even if she isn't at home. Her nurses and doctors take excellent care of her. I can hold her close to me whenever I want (or whenever Brad will surrender her!). And I will know what Spyder would have looked like - there is so much of him in his sister. He will live through her and her story.