I haven’t blogged in a while. Things have been hectic at work; when I get home I just want to sleep and when I get to work, I just want to get through the day.
But one thing has changed. We’re thinking of having another baby.
A short while after Hudson died, I said to his father: we’re either going to have to have another baby or we’re going to have to travel cos I can’t go back to what we were before. I don’t know where that came from; you can be a bit crazy after your child dies, I suppose, but in a way I was clearer than I’d been in a while and, as it turns out, I really can’t go back to what we were before.
We’ve been heading in that direction for a while now. As many parties as we can squeeze into our lives; as much distraction with not a hell of a lot happening in between. And I’m unhappy about it.
Truth is, I’m surrounded by all these people, who I adore and love. I share my life with a wonderful man with extraordinary capacity for love and affection and my family is alive and well. But I’m lonely. I’m lonelier than I’ve ever been before. I did not know loneliness before losing my baby. Hudson filled my world in a way that no other human ever could. Even in death, he is my priority and he fills my thoughts. Where is he? Is that ringing in my ears still him or should I be seeing a doctor? Who is that kid in the photos that adorn our walls and rooms? Why isn’t he here anymore?
The problem with this loneliness is the ambivalence created by the only way to fix it. How do you even think of a new baby after Hudson? Do I want another baby? Are the risks involved with spermatifying one of my ageing eggs worth it? If we do have a child, will I even sleep for the first year?
Hudson’s Congential Heart Defect wasn’t genetic, which means the chances of us having another CHD baby are minimal (1-4%); same as everybody else’s but there are other risks associated with babies – Down’s, SIDS, choking, flu. It’s fuckery most heinous.
When you think about everything that *can* go wrong, it’s difficult to understand why people actually choose to do this. We’re fucking terrified on one side of the fence and desperate on the other – it’s a shit place to be, in case you’re wondering.
And then there’s the question: why am I doing this, actually? Is the new baby going to be a replacement child? I know on an intelligent level that no one could replace my first-born but, in truth and in reality, he’s gone and if another baby comes along, they’ll be here where he is not – technically and by dictionary terms, a replacement. I make an effort to use the words “brother or sister” when talking about a new baby because that’s what they’ll be but, in essence, I’m replacing somebody I’ve lost. I’m filling a void so vast that people who have never lost a child just couldn’t understand the size of it.
James Newton writes in “Destiny of the Souls” that the loss of a child is unfathomable and even he doesn’t understand the reasons it happens (on a soul journey level). He then says that he believes that the lost soul will return to its mother. When I read that line, I was so filled with hope that I actively started talking about a new baby. Is it Hudson I’m hoping for?
Like I said, fuckery.
To close, I think that rather arbitrary sentence, said many months ago, is one of the things that has kept me going.
I know on a base level that if I don’t have a little person (ideally one I helped make) in my life soon, this grief will turn into my child. And I’ll nurture it and grow it and it will consume me. I think I’ll end up hating myself, hating Hudson’s dad, hating the fact that my life does not include the one thing I really need it to – someone other than me to care about; someone young enough to reasonably demand and rightfully expect my attention whenever and however they like. Unlike the rest of the world who are really big and ugly enough to look after themselves.
Regardless as to how this is settled, every month, when another egg makes its way out of my fallopian tubes, I cry. Every month, when the squishy, uncomfortable part of my cycle concludes, it feels as though I have lost something greater than a bunch of cells, I have lost the potential and the promise of life being okay again.