The Shower

Yesterday I attended my first baby shower since Lucy died, replete with no less than four pregnant attendees.

It was okay.

It was more than okay, actually. It was lovely. Initially, I thought I would just go and help set up, because I do very much love the star of the shower and wanted to be part of her day. She is my sister's sister-in-law. She was also part of our short-lived but mighty book club. We are both the only aunts in my nephews' and niece's lives. I am grateful actually at how much I love her and her mother. They, along with my twin sister, created a safe environment, knowing I had lost Lucy, knowing I realized Lucy wasn't moving at a baby shower, knowing that in my position they maybe couldn't attend a shower, to come and go without grudge. If I couldn't manage, I could leave safely at any time. But I didn't leave. Maybe it was all I needed--an acknowledgment that that day was going to be hard. An acknowledgment that I am grieving. An acknowledgment that I could be jealous, that I miss my girl. An acknowledgment that I wanted to dress my girl in the same outfits being oooed and aahed over and couldn't.

In the first few minutes of the official start of the shower, an aunt came in. She said hello, as I stood next to my mom doctoring some punch. She made small talk, asked me how many children I had. "Two daughters." I kept my face officially buried in the punch, without contaminating it, not making eye contact.
"How old?" Had she really not heard my story through the family grapevine?
"My oldest is two..." and my mother interrupted.
"Her youngest was stillborn in December." And I kept working, and ignored the rest of the conversation, which involved my mom showing her her necklace with all her grandchildren's names, including Lucia's. I thought then, "Oh, I cannot handle this shit. I will not last long with these questions." I poured another apricot nectar into the punch bowl. I couldn't find my sister, as she was greeting people in the door. Partially, I wanted my sister to quietly whisper my story to every person walking in the door; and partially, I wanted noone to know. I couldn't bear the idea of pitying looks my way through all the parts of the shower. But instead of finding KellyAnn, I grabbed some coffee, sat in the corner, buffered by my mother, and ate chocolate covered strawberries. It was a good position to be in. The observer in the corner. Sometimes I summoned George Page's PBS Nature documentary voice, "The elusive, yet beautiful, first time mother delicately opens the packages brought by her family to welcome her new offspring. The group of women instinctively coos over another pink onesie, verbally acknowledging the preciousness of the newborn."

Occasionally, my sister would come over and say something hilarious, as she is wont to do, or bring me another strawberry, and go back to the hosting. Not one more person asked me how many children I have, or what I did. I assume some knew my story, others just too wrapped up shower. But that was more than okay. There are some days you just want to be an anonymous positive force, a smiling person bestowing blessings. I had thoughts, random fleeting thoughts, that I think all babylost mamas have. Will everything be okay for everyone? I was partially terrified for everyone and comforted to think my story is not the normal ending. I was also horrified by my thoughts as my eyes rested on the beautiful roundness of the bellies in the room. I dared not dwell on these thoughts, or I will cry at the possibility of any of these women experiencing the type of sadness I have. I am not normal.

How I long to be normal.

Not simply once, but throughout the day, my sister's mother-in-law and sister-in-law looked at me with tears in their eyes and said, "Thank you for being here." And well, that meant the world to me. It made me feel wanted there, even though I could have come to represent something scary. A few months ago, my own mother, when I was telling her about my anxiety about attending, said something to the effect, "They probably don't even want you there, talking about babyloss."

Still, my mother stuck close to me yesterday, and I am incredibly appreciative of that. When we talked later that night, she admitted that at some points she had gotten pretty choked up. I hadn't noticed (ah, the narcissism of grief!), but I didn't get choked up, surprisingly. I just have an overall air of sadness and unsure energy. I notice it in a room full of people jabbering away and making small talk. The babymama cried when she opened my gift. I painted her a picture for her nursery, and also got her some things from her list. Even though I didn't want to cry, I was okay with others crying. It is a joy, and tears of joy to me, are more beautiful than smiles.

As I drove home, I put in the Gipsy Kings, rolled the windows down on the Outback, and thought about a weekend trip I once made to Puerto Penasco in Mexico. I was happy then. I felt contented then. Driving through rural Northern Mexico without a care. I had left my many many anxieties back at my home in Tucson, and headed to the beach. I remember thinking on that ride, with the hot desert wind on my face as the beautiful gypsy guitar music blared, that I was happy to be in my twenties, and maybe in love, and maybe facing the hardest trials of my life at the time, but it was okay. I could do it. I could get through anything; I was so cocky and brave. There was something of that feeling yesterday. I blared the same music, and thought about how my obligations and anxieties about this day were over. I felt liberated, a bit brave, a bit lighter. I can go to another shower someday, maybe a more intimidating shower. Maybe a shower where I can dance with a full-bellied woman to some gypsy guitar and cry tears of joy.

Baila baila baila me
Este rumba a ta gitana
Que yo siempre cantare