Tinted

Sit there and count the raindrops, falling on you. It's time you knew, all you can ever count on are the raindrops that fall on little girl blue.

-Nina Simone 

I can’t look back at the last six months without feeling the heavy weight of her.

Tonight, my husband pulled out the standing mixer and used an attachment that I last used to make cream cheese frosting for his birthday cake. That seems harmless, right? I was so proud of that cake. I’m not much of a baker, and he’s not one for sweets, but I made him a carrot cake and frosting from scratch, and I was really proud of it.

 See that memory has nothing to do with being pregnant, but I can’t help but think about how far along I was at his birthday. I had just passed into my second trimester, and I was finally feeling more like myself. The food aversions had passed, I wasn’t horrifyingly nauseous, and we were beginning to inform our friends as we saw them (which was not often, due to Covid-19).

It seems so innocuous when I think about it like that, but to be honest, all it does is weigh me down. I just think about who I was before she died, and if I will ever fully get back to being that woman.

 If she can have siblings earth-side, is this going to make me a monster of a mother? Anxiety-ridden and always fearing the worst? I would like to think not, but until I can look back at the last six months and feel something besides backbreaking anguish, I really won’t know.

 Sometimes, when I think of times in my life, I feel like they’re tinted with different colors, representing different emotions and experiences I was having at the time. Since her death, everything from the moment I saw the second pink line on my pregnancy test up to the present day has turned a dull, leaden grey in my memory.