How the light gets in

It's Christmas day and I'm holding my newborn son, warm in his blue sunflower romper, and I'm thinking of Polly.

I've been thinking of her a lot over the last few months; one of the few people who really know the hell of hyperemesis and the crushing darkness it can bring to a time with so many expectations of joy and lightness. I have been lucky, so so lucky, that the moment Alder arrived I felt that rush of relief and the whole ten months faded instantly. The midwife who had been trying to coax me to drink sent Rowan running for a cup of water and I drained it in one and said, "it tastes like water!" The past two weeks have been all the lightness and joy I could have wished for, in spite of everything. I'm still crying allll the time but it's relief and happiness. I wish I could share this with Polly. She'd cry for me, too.

When I bought the sunflower sleepsuit months ago I thought of Pol. I knew I'd think of her every time I dressed my baby in it. Clung to that sunshine, light through darkness, she'll be remembered with sunshine, this long long grieving pregnancy will end with light.

I have food poisoning. I spent part of my Christmas afternoon being sick. And part of it talking to a suicidal stranger on a comments thread. I have no idea if she's still with us and I might never know. I told her although we're strangers, we're sisters, and I meant it fiercely. Holding my newborn son, remembering a dear friend for whom nobody could hold it all together no matter how much we loved her. We never really know for sure if the love we send is received, if it helps. We love anyway.

Love and loss and pain and fierce joy. The sounds of my children arguing, giggling, eating all the food. Morgan brought me a plate of crackers upstairs so I didn't attempt to sleep on an empty stomach. This was not the Christmas I planned, or the update I planned to write, and yet here it is. Imperfect. How the light gets in.