I used to wonder, when I was in the midst of the hardest times of my infertility battle, how long it would take me one day (assuming there would be a ‘one day’) to get over this pain that I was living with, every single day. Would it disappear the minute I got a positive pregnancy test (not a bloody chance in hell), or when I saw that magical heartbeat on my first scan (nope, sorry). Perhaps once out of the ‘danger’ period, i.e. post 12 weeks (hahahaha, forgive the hysterical laughter, because, as you well know, I lost TWO babies post 12 weeks). Then surely it would disappear once I held my precious, healthy (live!) baby in my arms. But no, that wasn’t the case either. Even after Adam and Kate were born, the pain still lingered. I wondered if it would ever go away.
As for how long it will take me to be able to heal in the same way about Ben – I am no where even close. I can’t even think of the hospital where he died without breaking down, never mind actually ever going there. I tried visualizing it the other day, to try and deal with these painful memories in my head, but the only vision I had was of myself running through the wards, howling in pain. I am so far from healed it is scary. I have his memory box, with all his scans, my journal from when I was pregnant with him, his teddy bear. And the tiny little box with his ashes. And I can’t open it. I can’t even open his memory box, never mind go any where near the hospital where he died. Two and a half years later and I can’t think of him without breaking down. It is going to take a lot longer than 20 months. A lot longer. Perhaps never, and that’s ok. The pain becomes part of who you are. You become more, not less. This is separate to the infertility thing. It has its own timeline, its own resolution. It’s fine. I’m fine.