My World

For the most part, I truly believe we lead a "normal" life. (That which is abnormal is typically not because we have a micropreemie, it's just because of us). But there are always those moments that it hits me. I'll be doing just fine, and then a friend will mention that they don't want to get pregnant because it's inconvenient, because they like the life they currently have, and I cry.

I will never get pregnant again because another baby will most likely not survive. And very possibly, neither would I. (And because my OB has threatened to kill me if I do get pregnant... that always puts a damper on it).

Sometimes it's when people mention the milestones their children are reaching, or when they talk about going to the grocery store with their kids in tow. Every now and then, it is the sight of a child who is way more advanced than Charlotte, despite being chronologically younger.

But most often, it's the simple things. The way Caleb says, "Charlotte is at a doctors appointment" or "Mommy, Miss Charlotte is playing with her oxygen!" It catches me when people ask if Caleb is in preschool or if he is potty trained (both things have been put on hold because of Charlotte's needs).  I find it creeps into my thoughts when I see baby books or newborn photo shoots.

I crave those black and white photographs of newborns all curled up and asleep on some ridiculous prop, unaware of the world in which they now exist.

Honestly, I really don't feel hurt or upset or angry when I see these things. How can I be frustrated by actions that I myself would have performed if not for Charlotte? I understand, on a very real and intense level, that people are {generally} not trying to be rude; that most are incredibly sensitive when they know they should be. Most just simply don't know they should be. And it's OK.

I'm not angry.

Mostly, I just feel removed.

Expelled. Severed.

Amputated from the world I once knew.

Cut off from a reality that I once loved. A reality that I still love, but cannot embrace.

I watch that reality every day. I live in it, but am not a part of it. I must interact and converse with that world. But I can't ever be a constituent of that world.

Yet in a way, I'm grateful. I've come to realize that so many people are cut off from the world with which they participate. People have lost children, or parents, or their self identity. They've lost homes or values or prized possessions. Everyone lives in their own reality within a larger reality. It reminds me that I cannot project my idea of the world in which I participate onto the people with whom I interact.


I cannot compare my inside to someone else's outside.

And yet, I do.

I feel like the amputee, dealing with the throbbing phantom pain of a removed limb.

Except that my limb was a phantom to begin with.