Friday, March 6, 2009 – For forty days now, my mornings have not been the same: it is empty and its emptiness is beyond description.
I don’t like waking up knowing my only destination was going to be just my office; I’ve been so used to making multiple stops between leaving in the morning and going home at night.
I don’t like brushing my teeth, because doing so makes me remember that the time I used to gag when I would brush my teeth some seven months ago, Kai would slightly punch my bulging belly, blaming his poor little brother for making Mommy sick.
I don’t like the way the morning sun hits my eyes everytime I’d leave our village to go to work; it seems brighter thus more hurtful to the naked eye. Perhaps I need a new pair of shades. Plus, Kai never seems to want to bring me to the village gate anymore these days…
I don’t like having soup with my meals anymore – I never liked it in the first place anyway but I had to prepare myself for when Zak comes home and will need nourishment from me. If Kai and I made it to the recommended 2-year breastfeeding stage, I’d need to double that feat for Zak this time around.
I don’t like to have pansit for my afternoon snacks these days; it serves as my reminder that I’m just taking a break from caressing my little Zak and that I’ll come back to him when I’m done.
I don’t like seeing the roads that lead to UERM, whether it’s from our Merville house in Paranaque, or my parent’s house in Antipolo. It stirs up memories that for a time, I’d forgotten that I had a very pleasant office to go to everyday, which Kai adored beyond his wildest dreams (as in after his school ends this March, our deal was that he’ll go straight to working for our agency…sadly, Kai our office is on freeze hire mode these days), and that I opted to come here religiously instead for two whole months.
I don’t like going to hospitals – whether for myself or to visit someone else. I have unfinished business with my son’s hospital and I don’t mean finances. It amazes me how the very people you entrust cure and care of your loved ones can be as vile as the people who subjected us under extreme duress at the lowest point of our lives (read: pay some amount tomorrow morning at 8am or we’ll pull out your son’s oximeter!). It is sad that I considered them supreme beings who can do wonders for my little Zak. In the end, it is only His will that matters. Not mine…not the doctor’s…and definitely not the hospital’s.
I don’t like talking to doctors…I have three cousins who vowed to make my loved ones well…and they let me down. Maybe someday I’ll learn to trust in them again.
I don’t like going to the Xerox machines in the office…I dread falling in line for our annual physical exam…I hate passing by or even going into Pancake House…I would look for an alternative Unionbank because I cant go to the Perea branch where Zak and I last went before my confinement. All of them remind me of Zak.
I don’t like seeing pregnant women if only because my last pregnancy was too short for me to have savored: I missed the first trimester and never made it to my last. I had maternity outfits I bought for when I’m too big to fit through our front door. I’ve prepared much better for Zak’s coming home – his shirts are washed, his diapers abound, and essentially his place in our home is being set up, organized, primed for his coming home. I loved being pregnant! It was never difficult for me, though I know I made it difficult for people around me – beginning with my OB, my husband, and yes, even my AE! I felt extremely nurtured, protected and loved. More than that, I felt sexier despite the size.
I don’t like seeing babies, especially newborns. Its still terribly difficult to breathe when I see one and images of my struggling Zak flash before my eyes. One day not so long ago when Max and I visited a cousin’s 3-month old baby, he broached the subject of us potentially adopting. My initial, private reaction was to be revolted by it. But when you think about it, he must have been thinking I so badly to have one it wouldn’t matter if it was ours or not.
But it mattered. It matters now that my mornings aren’t the same. I looked forward to my days beyond delivery to look after three boys and to be cared by three of the most compassionate men I know.
It has been forty days since I lost my little Zak. To this day, I still wonder why he had to be subjected to so much to deliver a message to me. It’s harder to take it, but at least this time, I’m taking it more seriously.
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