I'm so tired of crying in all the expected situations. I'm tired of encountering so many of those moments, far too many. Tired of the ache that comes with being tired and needing a good cry. I'm tired of how completely it wrecks me when it finally happens.
I'm tired of crying at the unexpected times, the happy moments that have nothing to do with Kyla. Tired of the awkward words as people try to think of something to say. I'm tired of brushing it off as if it's no big deal. Tired of my lying words as I sometimes don't acknowledge the death of my baby. I'm tired of the pain of being happy for somebody else's healthy baby.
I'm tired of remembering what it was like to hold her. Tired of reliving, over and over again, that moment when I didn't support her head properly and it flopped backwards. I'm tired of remembering that I could've held her a lot more, but I didn't. Tired of the regret that inevitably comes with the thoughts of that night. I'm tired of not knowing what color her eyes were. I'm tired of not being able to really remember what her skin felt like or how tiny her fingers were. I'm tired of looking at her pictures because they often remind me of how many more we could have had if I hadn't ended the session early. I'm tired of only having those pictures to remember her by.
I'm tired of remembering the endless wait at the hospital before the inducement began. Tired of remembering the confusion of the critical decisions that needed to be made in the meantime. Tired of remembering how unprepared I was to discuss whether I wanted to cover my baby in dirt and let her rot or burn her into a pile of ashes. I'm tired of the "grief literature" they gave us, as I'm sure hospital policy required them to. I'm tired of remembering how stupid it all sounded at the time, how detached it seemed. I'm tired of looking back and realizing how detached I was. Tired of the blurriness of it all.
I'm tired of remembering the awful knowledge of another round of contractions for Chelsea. I'm tired of remembering how much worse it was that time. Tired of remembering how unrewarding the pain was for her. I'm tired of remembering the utter helplessness of watching her endure the 15 minutes of drug-induced back-to-back-to-back-to-back hard labor contractions with no breaks. Tired of hearing her screams of pain in my head. I'm tired of knowing that I was too late in finally asking for the pain meds to be given to her. I'm tired of remembering that that was the reason she was barely lucid as she held our daughter in her arms for the first and almost last time.
I'm tired of remembering that I said no to the opportunity to bathe Kyla and dress her. Tired of remembering how weird I thought it was to hold a dead baby. I'm tired of remembering how the nurses bathed and dressed her anyway, probably shedding their own tears along the way. I'm tired of knowing that our photographer cried on her way home.
I'm tired of remembering how dead Kyla looked the next morning. Tired of knowing what death looks like. I'm tired of being part of the child loss community. Tired of the nonstop barrage of heartbreak after heartbreak as more doomed people join it.
I'm tired of remembering my parents' tears. Tired of seeing the pain in their eyes, the two-fold loss as they mourned the death of their granddaughter and the beginning of their son's pain.
I'm tired of reminding myself that the early morning wake-ups with Kyla's siblings are so much better than the alternative. I'm tired of looking at my life through the perpetual what-if-Kyla-were-here lens. I'm tired of her not being here. I'm tired of not knowing what her first word was. I'm tired of not knowing what it would have felt like to hold her close to me as she screamed. Tired of never getting to watch her face light up when she sees me. I'm tired of knowing that no matter how good of a father I ever might be, I'll never get to hear her say that she loves me. Tired of whispering and sobbing my love at a wooden box on a glass shelf and a picture on a computer background.
I'm so tired, and it hasn't even been two years yet.
