Heartbreak

I took my pulse earlier. It was seventy-two beats per minute.

I was surprised. I was surprised I found a pulse at all. I thought surely my heart must have stopped beating. How could it still be beating?

And more importantly, why? What is the point in going on when my baby isn’t mine anymore?

I have never felt so low in my life.

My Roo is gone. My Roo. I have never been apart from her for more than an hour or two since she was pulled from my belly. And now it's been more than four hours, and I am lost.

She isn't mine anymore. I signed a paper that says so, one that had a lot of horrible things on it including the word "sever," which has never been so ugly to me as it was tonight.

I held myself together remarkably well until I got into the car without my baby. I felt like I was going to throw up. I wish I had, I might have felt a little better.

I did not throw up. I wailed, I screamed, I cried. I made a lot of sounds like a wounded animal, inhuman sounds I have never made before. The clacking of the unfastened car seat buckles - the Roo-less car seat - undid me.

“Did I really just do that?” I asked a few times. No one answered. I had moments of calm interspersed with screaming fits. I used up about three dozen Kleenexes. I wailed that I wanted to die. I did want to die. I think I still do.

A beep sounded from my diaper bag – my diaperless bag. My BlackBerry’s battery had run out. How perfect. My battery ran out, too. I slumped in my seat, sobbing, clutching the burp cloth Roo had rested her head on as I’d held her earlier.

I couldn't bear to get out of the car when we got home. How was I supposed to go home to an empty house? How was I supposed to go in without my baby? I couldn't. I sat in the car for a few minutes, one hand in the empty car seat, staring at the space where Roo's head should have been. I could almost see her there.

My mother had to pull me out of the car, lead me inside. The house felt wrong. My arms felt empty, so empty they ached. I shuffled into the living room, curled up on the couch in the fetal position, and came undone. I raged, I screamed, I moaned, I wailed, I made more wounded-animal sounds, inhuman sounds. I wasn’t quite there. My eyes wouldn’t focus properly. My mother tried to console me. I scarcely wanted to be touched. I cried out for my baby, my precious daughter. I said over and over that I just wanted to die. My mother said it would be okay. I pummeled the arm of the couch with my fists, kicked out at the air.

“Nothing is ever going to be okay again!” I shouted. I lost my strength, curled up again.
Again, I said I wanted to die. My mother said she understood. I turned on her.

“Don’t you ever say that!” I screamed at her. “You will never understand! Don’t you dare say that!”

I sat up quickly, clutching a wad of used tissues.

I calmed a bit, apologized. I went into the other room. And I cried. Roo’s tiny laundry was stacked on the couch. I re-folded a few Onesies, made a neat little stack.

I clutched the blanket M gave me. I held it like a baby, stroking the imaginary back and fuzzy head.

Over and over tonight, I have said: I hurt. I want my baby. I miss my baby. How could they drive away with my baby in their car? I want to die. I feel lost. I don’t want to have another baby someday, I want this baby, my baby, my Roo. What am I supposed to do without my baby? How am I supposed to breathe, to eat, to go on?

I miss Roo so much I could die from the weight of it.

My grief is selfish. Roo is going to have the most wonderful life with P and M. I know she will be okay. She will be more than okay, she will be happy, she will be safe and loved and cared for. She will get more cuddles than she can stand, more attention than she wants, and more love than she can fathom.

But what about me? What am I supposed to do without my baby? She isn't my baby anymore, either. And on a deep level, I know that, and I am okay with it. I know in my heart that Heavenly Father meant for her to be M and P's baby. They are her parents, I don't doubt it for a second.

But it's so hard! I was her mommy for two months, for nine weeks. Nine of the happiest weeks of my life. I was so blessed to be Roo's mommy. I feel as though that is all I have ever been. I don't know who I am without her. What am I supposed to do now?

I pray that I will know what to do now. I pray that this won't be my undoing. I know that I made the right decision for my sweet baby. I know I found her family. I just hate that what's right for her is so impossible for me.

What am I supposed to do with my life now? I have plenty of time to figure it out, I suppose. The future stretches out before me, endless and interminable and lonely.

I hope Roo is adjusting better than I am. I pray that she is. I have prayed every night for weeks that she will know that P and M are her parents and that she will not miss me.

One thing I have learned about myself over the years is that I can do hard things. But I'm so tired of doing hard things! I wish things could be easy for me just once.

Before I got into the car, when I was still holding Roo, she started to fuss a bit. I tried to make her happy but she got crabbier. I panicked. I didn't want to leave her this way. I kissed her cheek and handed her to M. She calmed almost instantly. She looked content, if a bit thoughtful, not quite sure what was going on. That M calmed her made me feel I had done right.

"You just needed your mommy, didn't you?" I said. I think I said it twice. And I kissed her cheeks, touched her nose, and told her that I love her. Then I did the hardest thing I have ever done. I turned and walked away.

And I am forever changed.