This past weekend I went to visit my oldest friend. By that I mean, the friend I have known longer than any other friend I have. We have been friends since her birth, which occurred four months after mine. Seeing her brought back memories from right after we first learned about Leah's condition.
The last time I saw this friend we were both pregnant. She full term, her healthy belly bulging far out of proportion to her small frame. When we hugged her warm, expansive womb pressed into my small, hard, bump. It had been less than two weeks since I found out that Leah wouldn't survive. In the days between her infrequent rolls, I wondered if she still lived. When our pregnant bellies collided I knew that hers held life, but mine, maybe not.
The last time I saw this friend, we both wore hydrangea blue. She a bridesmaid's dress, me a loose, high-waisted dress from the Gap that still fit over my tiny stomach. I never graduated into true maternity dresses. When we hugged, it felt like we melted into each other, the matching dresses blurring the lines between our awkward swells. We cried for the tiny life growing inside of me that had so little time left.
Two days after Leah's birth, my friend gave birth to a daughter. A daughter. We should have both had girls, born four months apart. This echo of our friendship, of what could have been, made losing Leah feel even more cruel.
It still amazes me how hard the little things can be.
The last time I saw this friend we were both pregnant. She full term, her healthy belly bulging far out of proportion to her small frame. When we hugged her warm, expansive womb pressed into my small, hard, bump. It had been less than two weeks since I found out that Leah wouldn't survive. In the days between her infrequent rolls, I wondered if she still lived. When our pregnant bellies collided I knew that hers held life, but mine, maybe not.
The last time I saw this friend, we both wore hydrangea blue. She a bridesmaid's dress, me a loose, high-waisted dress from the Gap that still fit over my tiny stomach. I never graduated into true maternity dresses. When we hugged, it felt like we melted into each other, the matching dresses blurring the lines between our awkward swells. We cried for the tiny life growing inside of me that had so little time left.
Two days after Leah's birth, my friend gave birth to a daughter. A daughter. We should have both had girls, born four months apart. This echo of our friendship, of what could have been, made losing Leah feel even more cruel.
It still amazes me how hard the little things can be.
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2 comments:
Great post. It is so weird how the smallest things can trigger such big feelings.
Amy, I enjoyed and appreciated our visit so much. Thank you for being willing to face a difficult situation and get to together in spite of everything. I love you, friend.
And although your post was very hard to read, it put into words many of my feelings too. Thank you for being so open and honest.
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