Today marks three months since Ellis left my body and this earth. It’s hard to make sense of that amount of time—it feels both long and short.
Today was Ellis’ due date. We’re at the beach, a special place for us, and will spread some of his ashes in the ocean tonight. A month ago we took some of his ashes to Enchanted Rock overlooking the Texas Hill Country and read letters to him written by me, Hunter, and our families.
It’s been two months since Ellis died. This is the week he was supposed to be born—this Saturday, July 21st. Instead of the exciting anticipation of labor, his due date now brings pangs of sadness and longing for what might have been.
To Hunter, the father of our son: After Ellis died you wondered aloud if we could be considered parents without having yet parented a child; ours died in my womb before we had the chance.
They say grief is non-linear, though my Type A personality wants to believe it’s possible to graduate from one stage to the next. I experienced the first stage of grief, shock, when the doctor first told me, “I’m sorry, your baby does not have a heartbeat.”
The last three nights the full moon has shone clear and bright in the sky. The first time I walked outside since leaving the hospital was in the security of darkness.
We welcomed and said goodbye to our sweet baby boy, Ellis Bates, born still last Sunday, May 20th just before midnight.