Two months ago, I gave birth. Part of me will always be in that delivery room on the fourth floor of Sainte Justine Hospital, across from the nursing station, in one of the newly renovated rooms for mothers like me. A picture of a kite blowing in the breeze posted to the door lets nurses and staff know that the woman inside is experiencing one of life’s greatest tragedies.
Two months later, and only because plans for tonight were put in motion in early spring, I’m going to see Leonard Cohen at the Bell Centre. He is sometimes called the High Priest of Pain, so I will be in good company.
Tomorrow, I take to the skies on a weeklong trip with my mom for some rest and recuperation with sand, beach, booze and sun. And I get to bring Henry with me thanks to my pretty little locket :-).
Two months later, life is nearly unrecognizable, but I’m surrounded by the same people, sitting on the same furniture, wearing the same glasses, but with a gigantic Henry-shaped hole in my heart, and an empty womb. I wonder what my beautiful son would have looked like had he lived to seven months in utero?