Why do I do this to myself? I keep reaching a place where the pain subsides and I think, "Ah. This is it -- I am finished grieving." Why do I keep thinking that grief ever finishes? And even if it does, why would I expect it to reach it's end so soon? It's only been seven weeks and three days since I birthed our daughter, dead.
Today I woke up afraid. Afraid that Eve was our one and only child. That she really was a miracle baby, that my body cannot bring children to life, ravaged as it was by an eating disorder.
Also -- afraid that we will not be able to adopt. That agencies will learn of our stillbirth and reject us, thinking that I am too sad, too broken to love another woman's baby. Or that we will be asked to wait years and years, that I will be forced to be an old, old mother with a too-young child.
Or worse, that we have been called to be childless.
I don't want that calling.
What will become of me if this it turns out to be true?