I woke up thinking of Koopa this morning, for no particular reason that I can discern. I lay in bed, in the early morning light, examining those feelings.
On the one hand, there is sadness. Sadness for my baby girl that died, that I never got to meet. On the other hand, if she'd lived, we wouldn't have Neeps. And I don't want to not have Neeps. So there's also guilt.
It complicates the grief somewhat.
But I'm not unused to that sort of conflict- after all, I miss my dad and wish he hadn't died, but if he hadn't died, I wouldn't have the life I have. And I like the life I had. So. Yeah.
And then in the evening I got on Facebook and saw everyone freaking out (with delight or dread) over the new Anne of Green Gables adaptation, and many, many females of my acquaintance (and their acquaintance) expressing an identification with Anne. One friend-of-a-friend in particular said, "Anne is me."
I clicked on her comment to say in a joking sort of way, "I certainly hope not, given what happens in later books!" but then I realized that her avatar was a picture of an extremely-familiar sight: a fetus far too tiny to ever live, cradled in the palm of her hand.
"Oh," I thought. "Oh, my poor sister."
Because yes, Anne is her. And Anne is me. And Anne is everyone who has ever lost their baby. I remember reading that book in the bath, and bawling, because suddenly Anne and I had more in common than I'd ever dreamed.
There's no clever quip to end this entry. Just a dull and complicated sort of sadness, and a fierce gratefulness for the joys that balance it out.