I’ve got lots of time to think. And when I close my eyes, it just gets worse. I picture Amelia’s birth and her death and her little graveside memorial. I think about it, dream about it, and talk about it. It’s an awful plague I can’t seem to escape.
I can’t judge. I won’t judge.
But I’ll speculate.
Is it worse to know your baby is going to die, or is it worse to be unprepared? It’s like the band-aid on a hairy arm getting ripped off in one fell (excruciatingly painful) swoop versus being pulled off bit by bit, agonizingly slow and steady. There isn’t a worse or a better. Both are difficult, painful situations. But at least the hairy arm was prepared for it, toughened up by the elements. I feel like my band-aid was placed on the most delicate, bruised and unweathered skin.
One is over and done with; a cleaner break. The other is drawn out over the course of what seems like eternity, taunting the victim here and there a little. But both have baggage. I know the latter, and Tyler knows the previous (and the latter). Which is better, and which is worse?