Six months

Six months since I felt our son move within me.

Six months since his heart was beating. And incredibly, despite the pain, mine still beats on, clocking the 19th of each month.

Six months since George was in my arms. And still. And then I got to hold him a little while the 20th, the day after his stillbirth, so his brothers could meet their baby brother.

Remembering our last contact on this earth, baby boy, at the visitation and then your funeral. How I longed to pick you up from that casket and cradle you in my arms just once more. But I didn't. I unwrapped your little fingers and held your cold little hand and admired your long fingers. I touched your soft cheek and peeked again at your downy brown hair, trying make the most of our short time together.

Love to the sky and missing you so much sweet boy. Thinking of you always despite the tide of opinion that a mumma with other children should not feel sad. How stupid can anyone be that they think I would not miss your sweet self? That I would not mourn your death bitterly? Despite the joy your siblings bring, you are missing. Having surviving children does not negate your presence in my life and the crushing sorrow that your absence from it has left.

Six months post-partum with an angel baby is a sad and crazy place to be. I pretend now I'm managing but I'm not. Not really. Inside, I'm crumbling and fighting to regain a bit of how I used to be. Clinging to faith. Hoping you'll come to me in my dreams.