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.
Wrong.
With thirty- eight weeks, my water broke. An hour before, I had felt kicks still. High hopes. Big faith. We made our way to the hospital, and two hours later, the baby was almost there. Wretched memories appeared, and I could tell the fear got to us both.
The birth was a little hazy, my worry grew too big. Maybe, we had been a bit traumatised, knowing the baby we held last didn't have a heartbeat.
I remember the feeling of the baby getting out completely, for a few seconds, it was dead silent. And then, the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard in my life filled the tense room. It was the sound of a newborn crying loudly, hysterically. Missing the warmth it'd had in the motherly womb.
The words are flying through my mind while writing this letter. "Congratulations. You have become parents of a beautiful, healthy baby boy."
A boy.
He was laid onto my chest. I remember his bare skin coming in contact with mine. That moment was so wonderful. I got to kiss his cheek before they cleaned him and wrapped him in the blankets we brought with us. You laid beside me in the bed, kept asking the nurses and doctor if he was healthy, what his heartbeat meant, if his temperature was okay, if his weight was alright.
"Mr. Malin, he's completely healthy."
No matter how many more questions it raised about the death cause of Eden, we allowed ourselves to thoroughly enjoy this moment. They gave us time alone and we stared at our created baby boy. Beniamino Matteo Teddy Malin. Benjamin. Son of my right hand. Benji. Our son. Our boy.
Do you remember holding his tiny hand in ours? Touching his little nose. Brushing our fingers over his wet, rosy cheeks. Playing with his dark, fuzzy hair. Kissing his little lips. Holding him to our hearts. A tiny, fast beating heart, on his parents' calm, beating heart, knowing he was healthy. Woven delicately in my motherly womb. Exquisitely.
Zev. Mamma mia. I get sentimental thinking back. He's nine now. Our little baby boy, growing wiser and stronger and more independent each day. He cooked lasagna today with me. Il mio bambino. Il mio dolce ragazzo.
We were allowed to go home after a day or two. They wanted to make sure everything was alright after our last, painful experience. The first day home was not to be described.. You held our little boy in your arms. Showed him everything. From the couch, to the toilet, to our bed, to his room, his nappies, his toys and his dummy and not to be forgotten- his first books.
"I feel uncomfortable looking at him." We were stood at his bed after lying him down in his crib.
"Why?" I'd frowned, held your hands.
"He doesn't have a pillow."
I laughed. Scolded you in Italian. "It needs to be like that. He's fragile."
We picked him up again. The moment I had been waiting for was there, when he started crying. I'd done it in the hospital, but you weren't there, because the doctor was busy answering your many questions, showing you and teaching you how to wash a baby in a tub, stuff like that.
"Zev, il mio amore. Come." Oh, it was wonderful. I sat down comfortably, held Benji in my arms and fed him. It went beyond me, feeding my child with something that was made in my own body. The contact between him and me, physically, emotionally. I gave him the nutrients he needed in order to grow. He grew because of me.
Motherhood is indescribable. It is so wonderfully conceived. A mamma baby moment.
You sat beside me, stroked his little, soft head while you watched him drink. His little hand rested on my breast, he did that each time I fed him. You were almost jealous of the intimate moment between mother and child. Wondered why a papa didn't have something to have a moment like that with his child. After I would have fed him, I always handed him over to you, so you could let him burp.
Thank goodness, he only puked right in your face a few times. Haha.
The first few nights were, just for every new parent, without much sleep. Quickly, we had found a routine for that. When it was your feeding duty, I pumped during the day so you had the milk for the night. When it was my feeding night, I did it skin to skin. Eventually you took over almost the whole night, every night. Said my body needed to recover from the birth, still.
But when you needed to get back to work, you couldn't stay awake. I tried taking it over each time, but you pushed me back to sleep always. You were so thoughtful, helpful. Supportive. Truly there. Like it's supposed to be, but I couldn't and wouldn't take it for granted. I admired it from you.
I remember waking up to his crying in the earliest of morning. The watery sun shone onto your face. You were worn out. Even his crying didn't wake you. It was your night, but I let you sleep. Took Benjamin to our room and fed him while watching the both of you. My boys. The ones I loved and love most in life.
Benjamin's eyes shot every direction, his little mind was not yet able to focus on one specific point. I watched him. Then, he smiled. For the first time directed towards me. I remember tears rolling down my face. Joyful tears.
You shot up, stared at the sun with wide eyes. "I forgot to feed him!" You rolled out of bed, but before you could leave, I reached for your arm.
"Amore." You saw me crying, quickly rolled back in bed. "He smiled!"
"What?!" You reached for our boy. Laid him onto your legs. You tickled him. Blew raspberries on his bare belly. He smiled again. The sight of your face.. prezioso. "He smiled at me too!" Your excitement took over. A new milestone.
My mind is going back through the years. Thinking of Benjamin. Thinking of us, as parents. Time flew. Hadn't it? Benjamin was a quick learner. Within no time, he crawled all over the floor. Climbed upon the stairs, chairs, other low things. With you reading a book, and me knitting a sweater, we both screamed when we saw how he pulled himself up on the coffee table. He fell back down onto his bum as we had startled him with our loud voices.
"He just stood up! Did you see that?!"
Soon, it was time to stop breastfeeding him. And the thought of that hurt. It was so abrupt.. I'm sorry, Zev.. you know what I mean. I know you have forgiven me a long time ago, but..
He's still healthy, right? It hadn't harmed him..
Moving on.. do you remember the both of us sitting oppositely from each other? Holding Benjamin up?
"Come to papà, amore." Your arms were stretched out, your smile was wide, your eyes full of pride. The memory warms my heart. I can picture it perfectly.
I held him in my arms, holding him up as he wobbly stood on his little feet, knees, legs.. "Come on, amore. Go see papà." Carefully, but determined, he took a little step forward. He fell quite a couple of times, but right there, you could already sense the Italian mentality in his blood. He never gave up, went through until he could let himself fall into your arms.
He had squealed, giggled loudly. Walked back and forth. Steadier each time. Within no time, a couple of days later, he walked through the house as if he came walking out of the womb. Not much later, he started speaking. He was clever. Heard two languages. Picked up on that.
When he was three, he didn't do differently than speaking full sentences. High pitched boy voice. Sweet. Mellow. Chubby cheeks. A bloated belly, pushed forward as he walked. His tan skin matched his brown hair. Little teeth. Small clothes. I was so in love. It often made me forget about the stomach aches I'd had, so very often. I hadn't mentioned it much to you. Didn't want to worry you.
Better said, didn't want to confirm my worried thoughts.
Benjamin wouldn't stop growing. Soon later, we waved him off to school. He cried the first day when we waved him goodbye. You nearly cried too. "Zev, it's alright. He's in good hands."
"But look at him, sitting on that tiny chair.. his bottom lip quivering. Tears glazing his eyes."
"He'll be fine, amore.. he just isn't used to us not being around."
"But.." You kept staring at him, waving at him, blinking your tears away. "What if he thinks we're leaving him here? Never coming back?"
For a moment I wondered if that comment came from your little boy's heart, who mourned his father's absence. His unreliability, still. It made me feel quiet, so I took your hand in mine and pulled you away. "You have told him a thousand times that you will pick him up. He trusts you, amore. After today, it will be less hard for him. Trust me."
You worked from home that day. You walked into the living room throughout the whole day, checking the time. Around half past two, you put on your shoes. "We should go. Pick him up."
"Tesoro.. he's in school for thirty minutes more and it's a five minute drive."
You let out a deep sigh.
Then I realised that when your father had left you, he had planted anxiety in your heart. Some sort of attachment disorder. Separation anxiety disorder. You were cautious with new contacts. But on the other hand, you clamped yourself to the people you loved so dearly, afraid to lose them. Sometimes it was a little too much, but I never blamed you for it.
When we picked him up, he ran into your arms. Kissed you. Smiled widely, with his little teeth. Explained excitedly what he had done. It relieved you so much, that when your head had hit the pillow at night, you cried and told me about your father. It confirmed what I had thought. My love and admiration only grew a million times more for you.
We found out much later that Benjamin wasn't the silent one at school, even when he was a kid of less words rather than a lot. He wasn't insecure. He was kinda loud, had the Italian mentality. But was modest with strangers, polite. Ate good food only. Dressed nicely. Spoke two languages so now and then. Made friends quickly. And had a strong interest in horses and cows. Cowboys. Western. His results were between okay and good. People liked him. We loved him to death.
I remember lying in bed on a Saturday morning. Benjamin was seven. He was lying in between us, snuggled with the covers, sandwiched by our bodies. You read him some stories. Benjamin listened intensely. With Eden, even when she wasn't there anymore, but knowing that we had had another child, in my mind, alongside with watching my two boys with their sleepy heads, disheveled hair and slow voices, I knew that I couldn't be luckier, happier. Feeling as if we could finally handle the world and its sorrow.
And then the stomach ache appeared harsher and more aggressive than it had ever done before.
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Hello! Hope you're all doing well :). I haven't been able to concentrate on writing much more the past few days, but hopefully I'll get more motivation.
Howd you like this chapter? Bits of Benjamin's childhood? Do you still recognise him in this?
Aurora handling such situations compared to Zev?
Let me know x