Physical Evidence

Yesterday, M and I were doing some "spring" cleaning.

Of course, we're pushing into late summer/fall now, but the events of this spring made the task impossible, so we're tackling it now. Yesterday the room of choice was M's office, which was supposed to be Charlotte's room.

We were just getting ready to empty it out before I was hospitalized. The paint was chosen, the bedding decided, the furniture researched. All ready to go, although none of it actually purchased quite yet. M had already started complaining about having to repaint the room- the current dark navy paint not suitable for a baby of either gender, although great as an office.

Of course, we never made it that far.

Even though the room was never officially Charlotte's, even though the pastel paint never made it to the walls and the office clutter remained intact, I still find that room hard. It held so many possibilities. When I was pregnant I would wander in there from time to time, imagine the desk replaced by a crib, imagine the rocking chair in the corner, and think of all the magical moments I would share with my baby in that room. Last night as we finished shredding documents and filling files, I found it hard to leave. M turned off the lights as he left and I just sat on the twin bed, thinking.

In many many ways I am glad the room wasn't baby-ready. That would have been much much harder. That said, it would have made Charlotte more real. To have a physical place prepared in our home would have at least given me a place to grieve, especially in those early days. When I first came home from the hospital I found the house so hard- nothing reflected a baby. The few purchases we had made had been put away by well-meaning family during my hospital stay. There was no physical evidence, aside from the heparin bruises and the purple scar on my tummy, that there ever had been a Charlotte. I remember the most intense feelings of loss and disorientation in my own home, wandering around from room to room thinking What now? That, I believe, was the worst of all.

Oh, I miss her. Sweet baby girl.

A couple of nights ago M was puttering through some digital photos on a memory card, displaying them on our TV. They were winter shots; huge piles of snow in most of them. Suddenly an inside pic shot up, my profile, side on, quite pregnant. I was adamant that no pictures be taken of me when I was pregnant, so I didn't think there were any.

The picture was taken at my parents' house, less than two weeks before Charlotte was born. So, I was 22 weeks or so. I looked really pregnant. I looked further along than I actually was, the effects of how much weight I had gained. I didn't realize how pregnant I actually was.

M was surprised by the picture as well; he had forgotted he had taken it. He rushed to turn off the settings before the picture rolled around in sequence again, but actually managed to get the shot stuck on the screen, so for ten or fifteen long seconds, my pregnant belly was displayed on our TV.

It made me sad; yet at the same time I'm glad it's there. Charlotte was alive in that picture. I was still in babybliss. The picture was probably prefaced by conversations of showers and cribs and breast vs. bottle. In that picture I was normal, and I had no idea of what the next two weeks would bring.

I told M to print it for Charlotte's memory box. One more piece of physical evidence that I had a baby and she was real.