When the morning comes

37 | son of my right hand

Sparkly water with a touch of lemon

Because I couldn't drink wine.

And there were different reasons for that. The day after Eden passed away, we were being lived by the things we needed to arrange for a sudden funeral, for the death record, the money which needed to magically appear from somewhere, choosing a coffin, if we wanted sandwiches or cake at the end of the funeral, the chaos of people coming over and stopping by- things you didn't want to think of, at all, after losing a child, but needed to be taken care of.

Thinking back, I still don't understand how we managed, but I guess it all had been a great distraction for our emotions, that would kick in harshly after that dreadful day. We buried our baby up the tree at the lake house we wanted to buy. It was, however contrary this may sound, a beautiful burial. Just us. My parents. Your mother. Siblings. The priest. The sun. The big, old, blossom tree. The grass. The church clocks in the far distance.

I think the most painful thing of that day was seeing that awful little coffin. Our daughter lifeless. And at the end, leaving her all alone up that hill, even though I knew she was with our Heavenly Father. I remember sitting there the whole evening long. With you. Eventually I was the one who needed to pull you away from that place. Literally. Physically.

Days after that day, the emotions came. We were numb. Almost lifeless. Lingering in bed. We hadn't exchanged many words that day. It wasn't needed. We just held each other. Sometimes cried out of nowhere. Sometimes smiled. Shared our pain. Our shattered hearts.

I was the first one to pick things back up. I remember getting out of bed. Took a shower. Took a deep breath. Thanked God for a new day, together with you. Prayed to Him to take good care of Eden, even when I knew He would do that.

Together, we could go through it. But you stayed in bed for the rest of the week, too. I didn't blame you. Never had, and still don't until this day, Zev. You had a hard time expressing your emotions, sometimes in the right way. You couldn't move. Barely cried. Just stared numbly. Slept. Overthought.

I tried getting you out of bed. But you wouldn't budge. One morning, you broke down completely. You cried and cried and cried, until you fell asleep out of exhaustion. Words had spewed out of your mouth. I could feel your pain, the frustration. I had a different way of expressing them.

You asked God why He had to take our daughter away so soon. Said things you regret the day now. Got angry. Hit the pillow. But a few days after. You came downstairs. Drank coffee. Held me strongly, said you admired my strength and was sorry for your behaviour.

Zev, I told you this, but I want you to know again that I never blamed you. Never. We lost our daughter. Our only child. Our first child. Our Eden..

We're still human. We're allowed to get angry at God, as long as we lay it down afterwards, too.

And then, after a few months, the morning came.

I felt sick. Really sick. Cramps. Nauseous. An odd feeling. Like something had appeared in my body that hadn't been there before. We went to the doctors. What turned out? I was pregnant.

A huge mix of happiness, but cautiousness flooded our bodies and minds. We hadn't thought of another child after losing Eden. The pain was still too much, but when the news got to us, we couldn't believe our hearts.

We were too afraid to give in to the joyful feelings fully, the fragile baby growing inside of me bringing us a lot of worry because of what had happened to Eden. But the more my belly grew, the more ultrasounds I had, the more it became clear to us that maybe, this little baby, would make it through those 40 weeks.