The Eternal Guest Room

I spent last weekend in Seattle visiting my little sister and her new baby. I didn’t drop or break him, so I consider the visit a success. In seriousness though, the time was mostly fine. I even enjoyed it for the most part. I originally figured I’d go pretty soon after he was born, but my sister wanted me to wait awhile so I wouldn’t be there in the midst of insanity (and 8 million other family members) and so we could have some time together (we’re close but don’t see each other a lot because of the distance). So he was a month old when I got there, and it turned out to be a good plan because we did get some sister time in. My sister has been incredibly patient and understanding throughout everything, and it made all the difference in the world.

I held him a lot. I found it to be a lot like holding my cats – a small, warm, soft little thing that makes funny noises when they sleep. Comforting, for whatever reason. I enjoy my sisters’ children when other people aren’t around – which is hard to explain, but there’s something about having other people oohing and ahhing and making a fuss that just stabs me in the heart. I can’t explain it. At one point some of her friends came over and were gushing and going on an on and I just had to get out of the house.

Spending one evening at the grandparents’ house also did not go well for me (not my parents, the other side). Something about being around the grandparents is the worst; all those feelings come rushing back that I’ve worked so hard at getting under control – those feelings of inferiority and defectiveness and isolation. It should be me producing grandchildren and bringing my kids to see their grandparents, and I’m still just the barren aunt with nothing to do but watch everyone else enjoying the expanding family. It hurts.

One morning, my sister was sleeping and her husband went out to walk the dog. He asked me to bring the baby to my sister if he started going crazy, and I said sure. After awhile he started making noises, and being the paranoid and clueless infertile that I am, I had no idea if that was a bad thing or ok (although I was pretty sure it didn’t fall into the “going crazy” category). So I went in to the nursery and picked him up and held him and suddenly I had tears down my face. And I thought “I want this so badly.” And my heart hurt. And I cried.

I have built up defenses and even shut down my heart to some extent, because I have to get on with my life. But I know it’s still down there.

At the end of the weekend I was sad to say good-bye. I know that the next time I see him, it will be surrounded by family, and it will be hard. I’m glad I had that time, with just the 2 of us, and with just my sister. It was a good visit and I’m glad I went. Sometimes the hardest things in life turn out to be the best things you can do, and this was one of them.

My little sister is having a baby tomorrow.

She’s scheduled for a c-section in the morning. As much as I knew this day was coming, it still hit me harder than I expected. She’s 5 years younger than me, has been married for 4 years, and still doesn’t seem like she should be old enough for either. Well, it’s probably more accurate to say that I don’t feel like I’m old enough for her to be at either of those points.

Tomorrow I will become a third-time aunt (for those that don’t know, I’m the oldest of 4). Each time stings, but each one also gets a little easier as the passage of time numbs my heart a little more.

I feel like a horrible person. I feel no joy in these children entering my world, and I hate to admit that; writing it for the world to see makes me feel like a monster. But it’s true. After they are born, when I meet them, I love them, of course, but when they first make their arrival I can’t see past my own ridiculous grief. My mom says “I understand that this is hard for you and it hurts, but I know you’re happy for your sisters.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that I am not.

I wish them every happiness, every joy – but I can’t say I feel happy for them.

I know that time will lessen this pain, and that someday, it probably won’t really matter. But every new baby that enters the family makes me feel less a part of it. Everyone else is full of joy, so excited and happy, sharing each others’ elation – and I’m alone, grieving, and hating myself for feeling the way I do.

When I was in college, a friend died on my 20th birthday. The pain was so raw, so intense, that I couldn’t ever see another moment without it being in my future. As I sobbed, a good friend hugged me and whispered, “this too shall pass.” And it did. Not the sadness or the feeling of loss, because 12 years later I still think of him and remember the pain, but the sharp, heart-wrenching grief has subsided, and I remember his life more than his death now.

I know that this, too, shall pass. I know that this time in my life will not last forever. I know that I will love and adore each of my nieces and nephews (and I know that I will have a lot). I can look ahead and see that things will not always be the way they are. For this I am thankful. And it’s probably the only reason my selfish grief hasn’t swallowed me up yet.

For now I am saying “it isn’t fair” and “what about me.” I use these births to mark the passage of time for us. I know it’s wrong, but that’s the thing about feelings – they don’t really care if they’re appropriate or not.