Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I was ever even pregnant

Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I was ever even pregnant. Was there even a boy? There is no trace of our baby in this house. He died before he could come home. He never lay on our bed. He never wore clothes or drank from my breast. He never took a bath. He never even cried. He never met his sister. There is no physical memory of him in our home. Nothing to touch. No memory of time. Ashes are hidden away in a white porcelain heart. Footprints are stamped onto hospital paper. The knit hat and blanket that covered him in the NICU have no smell. His tiny ankle tag lies limp as his body on a table. His crib and dresser in boxes next to piles of maternity clothes hide away in what was meant to be his room. It is now just a room with a mess.

But.

There have been many times that I have been reminded that there was a boy. When, in the shower, Everett had to help release the milk from my breasts and we watched it disappear down the drain, I knew I had been pregnant. When I attempt to wear my jeans and feel insecure about my large and swollen body, I am reminded. When I rub oil on my stretch marks and look at my C section scar, I long for the days he kicked and kept me from sleeping. When the doctor calls to discuss autopsy reports and failed DNA tests, I remember. When my stepkids talk excitedly about the brother their mother will have in the Fall, I close my eyes and think of my son. On and on and on…

It is hard to create happy memories of a boy who lived 18 hours. And yet I will forever strain to relive those 18 hours, with all of the tragedy and trauma. That was our life on earth together as mother and son.