And on the camera that contains the birth photography--
Justin says, "Cat, don't go back too far. Just look at the pictures from the last few days."
But I keep clicking.
Back and back--December, November, then
October 20
Oh, eight days postpartum. I'm in a maternity dress and sandals. It's sunny and I squint at the camera. I'm sitting on our front porch with the boys who are putting up Halloween decorations.
My belly is slack with absent child. My hair looks full, pregnancy hair. I look okay. I am in the midst of the shattering.
I keep clicking back and back.
October 16
We held you for the first time. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I wasn't touching any part of you and I'm not even looking at you.
October 12
Your lips are bloodless in the OR.
completely white
as you are bagged
why, this fucking picture
October 10
Now the pictures are worse.
These are the bad ones,
prior to the event.
We are scooping out pumpkin guts.
I remember the hot kitchen
and the contractions
and how I made apple butter
and the way it was 100 degrees and our AC wasn't working and
yet the boys wanted fall and so I gave it to them with the smell of cloves in a crockpot and slimy pumpkin guts on their fingers,
the day before you were born --
or not born --
or almost not born --
I remember how I felt like such a good mom that day, carving pumpkins at 39 weeks pregnant.
Even then--were you not moving?
Were you bleeding, even then?
When did it start?
The hematologist yesterday said, "The best answer I can give you is: I don't know."
I stand up from the couch, shaky, after looking through those photos from too long ago.
I tell Justin, "I went back too far."
He hugs me and says, "Of course you did."