It started 14 years ago. It was on a February morning that my mom cornered me in a bathroom, and I admitted to her that I was pregnant with my son. It was like I ripped both of our hearts out, threw them on the floor and we stood there staring at them not knowing what to say. Both feeling so much but not able to articulate it. She left for work without really saying anything.
It was that same February that he broke my heart. When on Valentines day he left me alone, and went out with his friends. And I sat at home, alone. Finally admitting to myself what I must have already known, the father of my baby really doesn’t love me.
3 years later, it was February when my son and I left the comforts of my parents home, to live on our own. Although it was the right choice, and I am glad we did it, it was hard. It was hard for my 3-year-old son to have 3 people he loved no longer part of his day-to-day life. It was hard for him to have his own room and wake up alone, without me there. There was guilt, both self-imposed and that awful other kind.
It was 7 years tomorrow that we went for our first ultrasound. Excited to see our baby for the first time, together. Only to find out there was a problem. It was February when we heard the sentence “condition not compatible with life” and my world fell apart around me. It was February when I was admitted to the maternity ward to deliver the daughter that I would never hold or kiss. Who would never take a breath, or call for me in the night.
It was a year ago that my teenage daughter was release for the hospital to our care with no support for us, no additional information. It was the month of February that spend each day praying, searching and hoping for the best and expecting the worst. How would we support her? What was going to change?
Every year, I go through each of these again and again. They are fresh, and in the back of my mind. I dread February 1, and I know it is stupid. I hate the whole month of it, the reminders, the dread. I suppose it is a good thing that it is a short month.
But maybe next year, we can skip it.