As someone who is a writer by nature, the very day I found out I was pregnant, I ran (RAN) to B&N to buy the baby a journal. I had these mental images of growing round, and dispensing gems of wisdom to my child that they would someday read when I passed the journal onto them (graduation from college? 18th birthday?).
How very lofty and idealistic of me.
My first letter mentioned how scared I was of miscarriage. Sigh.
Last night I wrote the letter I never wanted to write. The letter I couldn’t bring myself to write, even though I’d acknowledged publically that we’d lost Hope, I couldn’t write that letter to Hope.
It was hard, I cried, but I got through it.
Today I woke up with a migraine. I wonder if it’s related?