I was irritable yesterday evening and everything John did or
said or didn't say or didn't do annoyed me. He couldn't
understand my mood but instead of becoming angry or
impatient with me he was concerned. Was I coming down sick?
he asked. Had something happened that day? No. I hadn't
told him about the little burial gowns I'm making and why
and how it was affecting me.
I had known it would be emotionally difficult to do this;
it's one of the reasons I chose it. I've tried to protect
myself a little by also making fun, brightly colored hats
for premature babies. Babies who will grow strong. Babies
who will go home. John and I had a long conversation and
he reminded me that while Lent was for sacrificing it
shouldn't get to the point of doing oneself harm. He's right.
He understands that doing this is a way for me to mourn and
have the funeral I never had for my daughter so many years
ago. Nowadays, hospitals let mothers see and hold their
stillborn children but then they protected us from that.
"It would be too traumatic" I was told. Like having a child
stillborn wasn't traumatic. There was no closure. A kind
nurse told me that my daughter had been perfectly formed and
beautiful but oh, so very tiny and fragile and for that
information I am grateful. It's my own little daughter I
think of when I work on these burial gowns, But it's hard.