Madeline

Time passing feels weird these days. In a way, it feels like I left the hospital yesterday. But in some ways, it feels like a lifetime ago. Sometimes I think about the time that has passed, the Madeline I was in July, and I don’t recognize her.

I don’t know if I prefer the fresh pain that I felt in the immediate days that followed Oliver’s death, or if I prefer the strange place I’ve found myself 7 weeks later. I’m not sure which is worse, honestly.

Oliver was stillborn on July 16, 2025. I survived the entire month of August without him. The first month without him in all of 2025. 31 days during which I grieved my child. It is something no parent should ever have to do. When September 1 hit, I was filled with so many strange and conflicting emotions that I didn’t know what to do with them at first.

September-December has always been my favorite time of the year for as long as I can remember. My birthday is in October, my husband’s is in November. Christmas is my favorite holiday by far. I love the cooler weather, the changing leaves, the seasonal smells of fall and winter. I love cozy sweaters and Birkenstock clogs and bonfires and Christmas decor. Yet right now, the thought of any of those things makes me sick to my stomach.

Oliver was due October 13. I remember being so excited to share my birthday month with my baby. I secretly hoped he would come on my birthday and that would be something small and special he and I could share.

I dreamed of lazy football Saturdays with him. I imagined all the Halloween activities we would do. I wanted to take him to a pumpkin patch. I wanted to carve a pumpkin and put him inside. I wanted to take him camping with my family. I already had his first Halloween costume in mind. I couldn’t wait to bring him to family gatherings for Thanksgiving and Christmas. I wanted to dress him up as something outrageous for Christmas, like Buddy the Elf or a snowman. I couldn’t wait to fill underneath the tree with gifts for him that I knew he would have no interest in, because he would only be 2 months old. I was ready to put a small Christmas tree up in his room. I knew newborn nights would be tough, but the thought of experiencing them by the light of the Christmas tree made me excited.

Now I don’t get to do any of that. Instead, the chill in the air on Monday made me cry uncontrollably, because cold weather was supposed to mean I had my son with me. Last year, I decorated for fall in August. Right now, in September, I don’t have a single piece of fall decor out. I haven’t lit a seasonal candle, I don’t have my kitchen towels switched out, nothing. I don’t think I want to.

The saddest realization I’ve come to lately is that I also don’t want to decorate for Christmas. I hate that I feel that way, because like I said, Christmas is my favorite time of the year. But knowing I was supposed to experience all of those fun holiday things with him makes me not want to celebrate a thing. I don’t feel like I have anything to celebrate. If I put up my Christmas tree, all I’m going to remember is how he was supposed to be sitting by it with me. If I go see Christmas lights, all I’m going to imagine is what it would feel like if he were with us.

Not only do I not want to decorate, I also don’t want to celebrate. I don’t want anything for Christmas. I don’t want to go to any sort of family gathering where he was supposed to be, too. I don’t want to celebrate my birthday. I’m turning 28 without my son, and that is cruel, because he should still be here. My birthday should be overshadowed by his birthday, not by the memory of his death. It all feels so pointless with him gone.

I was so unbelievably excited to share my favorite time of the year with Oliver. But now, all of the things I once enjoyed and looked forward to are just cruel reminders that there is this gigantic, aching hole where he was supposed to be, where he will always be.