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The silence is so thick that it threatens to choke her. Only three weeks ago, Barbie would have relished the signs of life around her.
The crashing of the waves on the beach just minutes from their home.
The sounds of crickets chirping and cicadas screaming from the trees.
Ken’s breathing, deep and slow in sleep, heart beating steadily one of the most glorious, comforting feelings Barbie has ever felt.
She hasn’t heard any of these sounds in weeks. The waves no longer crash, and the crickets don’t chirp. The only constant in her life is the feeling of Ken’s arms wrapped tightly around her, warm breath on her neck a balm on her soul. He’s awake. Barbie wishes he would say something, anything, but what is there to say? She can’t think of anything to say either. How is she supposed to speak when she can hardly breathe?
Three weeks ago, a new life had been wriggling about inside of her, a baby girl eager to meet her mother and father. Three weeks ago, she and Ken had walked into the hospital’s Labor and Delivery unit, elated to meet the baby girl they’d waited nine months for. She dreamed of her new life during breaks between intense contractions: holding her baby girl in her arms, reading her stories, watching Ken cradling the sleeping baby and singing her lullabies, watching her older daughter Josephine become the sweetest big sister.
How quickly her dreams had been shattered.
A baby girl left in distress for too long. A cesarean performed far too late. Their second daughter, their sweet Serenity Rose, born without a precious cry. Barbie rolls over and buries her face in the crook of Ken’s neck as the memories ambush her, repeating like a broken record. Ken’s arms tighten around her. She instinctually knows that it’s the same for him, too. The past three weeks have been a blur. She’s existed in a fog, letting Ken handle everything from telling their family, to filling out paperwork and making arrangements. A tiny part of her, hardly noticeable through the fog, feels guilty. Ken’s taken such good care of her, held her while she sobbed and raged, taken care of her physical needs as she recovers from the birth, done everything for Josephine while she lies motionless in bed, the idea of facing her family, her husband and toddler who so desperately need her, too much to bear.
She’s postpartum with no baby, and it’s not fucking fair. How is she supposed to get out of bed, to even attempt to function or comfort her husband and daughter when her entire world has come to a halt and splintered?
Josephine is frightened. She cries out for her mother, and Barbie hates herself for getting angry, for not being the mother her two-year-old needs.
Ken clutches the weighted bear given to them by kind nurses and sobs alone when he thinks she’s asleep. Barbie hates herself for not taking him into her arms and taking care of him like he deserves. She hates herself for not reminding people that she isn’t the only grieving parent and to please ask Ken how he’s doing.
She knows what he would say. I’m fine.
He’s far from fine. Barbie hears his breath hitch, and she wraps her own arms tightly around him. Within seconds she feels tears drip into her hair. She cards a hand through his hair and kisses his cheek, feeling closer to him yet further than she has since those stagnant decades in Barbieland.
The small comfort isn’t nearly enough, but Barbie doesn’t know what else to do.
None of them are fine. She’ll never be fine again.