everyone tells you it’s going to happen. you’re running on vapor and adrenaline for days on end, as a stupendously wonderful support team of family, friends and specialists forms around you. you can’t believe that something so fragile can possibly be making so much progress in so little time. time passes. news that you can’t almost stand to bear keeps getting better and better. and almost without warning, you’re staring at them.
and after weathering so many challenges, the best you can muster is guilt.
you’re going home and he isn’t.
sure. he’s got some cozy accomodations and best support that anyone can ask for. but still. after you leave, he’s still here. getting poked and prodded. rubbing his eyes and looking around. thrusting his legs and arms, still likely confused as to where his boundaries went, until maybe nurse jan comes by and tucks him in or holds his legs and arms against his chest to fool him into thinking that he just might possibly still be in the womb.
but despite no tubes and a whole lot of great progress, you’re still sad because you’re not there. and that’s when you realize a whole new kind of hard is only just beginning.