I didn't cry yesterday.
I've cried every single day since October 6, terrified that I would never stop crying.
And I woke up today terrified that I may never cry again.
Crying was awful, but it tied me to Raya.
It tied me to the beginning of October when we got the news, and the end of October when we said goodbye.
Crying tied me to a moment I thought would never pass, now a moment I'm terrified to forget.
It tied me to the slightest feeling of hope that I would forever exist in the moment after her passing, where all I became responsible for was my own mental health, making sure I remembered to eat, and snuggling with my husband and dog every chance I got.
I have spent the past two weeks crying myself to sleep, waking up multiple times from night sweats and having to change shirts as my milk supply came in.
Gregg didn't go to work, and I didn't go to meetings.
We went for walks and wandered absently around Target for something to do.
But Gregg returned to work last weekend.
And the flowers from friends and family members have begun to falter.
We used up the gift cards given to us for food and coffee.
And I didn't wake up in the middle of last night.
I didn't have to shower or change shirts the moment I woke up today.
I went and got a coffee, which I had a strong aversion to my entire pregnancy.
And it didn't make me sick.
And the fact that it didn't make me sick made me want to chuck it across the room.
The room where all of Raya's stuff was kept until I tried to box it up and threw it all across the room.
The room that Gregg successfully boxed up and put away last weekend so I could have my office back.
And in the midst of life beginning to continue, I became terrified that I would never cry again.
That Raya would somehow think we suddenly forgot about her; that she was just a chapter in a book we were writing that needed a plot twist to be marketable.
And I've rendered myself helpless in finding a way to make sure she knows that she will never be forgotten and will always be loved beyond measure.
And then I began to cry because I wasn't crying.
Because there isn't a rule book for this sort of thing; because baby's aren't supposed to lose their lives at 22.5 weeks pregnant.
Because I am a happy person, and it's exhausting to be so incredibly unhappy for such a long period of time.
Because I can't take the pain and sadness away from my husband.
Which I would; I would take ten times as much pain and sadness if it meant he didn't feel any.
And I'd take on even more if it meant she could have stayed.