regret

Tara Whitney Photography

Dear Bead Shop Girl-

I am writing here because I am the gutless wonder. I am writing because I cannot sleep. I wish I could rewind the day.

You may not recognize me by my name. Come to think of it, I don't know your name either. But we do know each other. We love to talk shop when I come in. You give me the inside scoop on what's new and beautiful in gems and findings. I fill you in on what fun things I've found in my travels. We speak the same language. We get each other.

I was excited to come by today and bring Amelie. I knew that our babies would be about the same age. I remember when you told me you were having a girl. You beamed.

Please forgive me. Please forgive my stupid, callous remarks.

"You lost the baby? Weren't you kind of far along? Wow that's hard. When can you start trying again?"

Who says these things? Who is that insensitive? There I stood with my pink, bright eyed, cooing, healthy baby. There you stood with empty arms.

If I could have put my own discomfort to the side, I would have taken your hand in mine and looked you straight in the eye and just said, "I am sorry."

Because I am. I know the pain of empty arms and there are no words that can make that go away, but I want you to know that I'm here and I can't sleep because I'm wishing ever so badly that I could rewind the day.

What I'd give to rewind the day.

Sincerely,

April

good grief

As I sit to write today, my heart is so heavy in my chest I can hardly breath. Yesterday, I lost my best friend in furry pajamas. Whitman had been struggling with kidney failure, and over the past few weeks it was getting the best of him. I decided I couldn't watch him loose any more weight or get any sicker. Our vet is really great and he made the experience a little easier.

I already miss the warmth of his little body nestled in the small of my back as I sit at the computer. He wasn't there this morning to watch me do my hair or put on my make-up. I didn't have to shew him off the bed to make it, or fill his water bowl. His sunny spot on the carpet sits empty. I have a headache from crying so much and I feel void of any creativity or enthusiasm.

One of my friends said she will never have pets because the pain is to hard to go through when they die. All I can say is that it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. I would never give up the memories I have just to save myself from sadness. Whitman was my surrogate child when I couldn't get pregnant. He relished my attention and purred like a motor boat.

So, although I wish I could walk past his sunny spot without crying or go an hour without second guessing my decision, I feel that this grief is good. The depth of my sorrow is only a measure of the joy he brought into my life.