It is almost impossible to believe that we lost our sweet boys one month ago today.
In some ways, it feels like it happened yesterday. The books I bought in a desperate attempt to prepare myself for raising twins are still sitting by my bed. The pregnancy journal where I was chronicling all of the cravings, and fears, and first kicks remains unfinished. The door to the nursery remains conspicuously closed, with unworn clothes and untouched baby gifts hidden away behind it. An app on my iPhone proudly proclaimed that the babies would have been 25 weeks yesterday.
And yet, in other ways, it feels like a lifetime ago. I have – thankfully – recovered physically from the trauma my body endured. Only occasional lightheadedness reminds me of the six units of blood I had to have transfused. My pregnant belly is gone, replaced instead by a food belly from the copious amounts of chocolate I have eaten to cope. Meanwhile, the seasons changed while I was trapped inside on bedrest starting in March – what was still winter in New York has now transformed into spring. The trees are blooming and budding. Flowers are emerging. Birds are singing with new vigor. New life is being born. It all makes for a confusing backdrop to the pangs of grief.
Recently I discovered a stanza in T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land” that declares, “April is the cruelest month.” In it, Eliot describes –
APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Now in May, I am in full agreement with Eliot – April IS the cruelest month.
End of the Rainbow 