The other night I lay in bed and prayed for God to turn back time. I prayed so hard. I know it was a selfish prayer - I know if he had turned back time millions of good things that have happened to other people would be taken away. But if it had worked the precious thing that was taken from us would be given back. That's all I cared about. I'm not even that ashamed that I was so selfish, to be honest.
I'm tired of not being selfish and I'm tired of trying to see all the good that my baby's death has brought about. It's utterly exhausting. I'm so sick of looking for the silver lining on this massive black shroud I could scream.
I wanted God to take us back to 1:25 pm on March 9th when I started pushing. Instead of it resulting in our son being born via C-section without vital signs four hours later, I wanted it to end with me giving birth to our beautiful, healthy boy. Our live boy. I wanted to hear him cry, I wanted to hold him and know he was fine. I wanted to be able to show him to our families - not in the special care nursery moments before we took him off life support, but in my room, surrounded by flowers and baby things and happy, smiling faces.
I wanted - I WANT - what everyone else seems to get.
I know we're not the only ones who've ever struggled with miscarriages and, now, infant loss. I know that the happy pregnant women on my street and the street behind us may very well have gone through horrific times too. I've been told to think that way and I have - and it helps.
But not always. Not when I keep seeing bulging belly after bulging belly turn into tiny bundles with, it seems, virtually no effort at all.
I know, I know. I'm being horribly unfair and selfish and miserable.
But you know what? Today I don't care. I'll apologize tomorrow - and mean it - but today I'm sad for what I've lost and sick with jealousy at everyone else who has it.
God won't turn back time.