On January 19, 2018, I gave birth to a perfect baby girl, Juniper Simone Higgins Blazes. She had many nicknames while she was in utero: Squirmy, Lemonade, Baby Dirt, Baby Blazes — but the one we picked out as her familial name was Juno.
Due to complications during labor, Juno never took a breath on her own. She was taken by helicopter to the NICU at MassGeneral, where she fought bravely to survive for 6 days. She died peacefully in our arms, while we sang her lullabies and told her over and over how much we love her. Even though we never saw her eyes open or heard her cry, we believe that some part of her could hear us and knew that she was, and still is, immensely loved.
This blog is about my grief. This is not my first time going through an intense, unfair, sudden personal loss, so I already have some perspective on the non-linear, nonsensical nature of grieving. And some of it is completely brand new to me. Juno is my first baby, and losing a baby is something completely foreign and unnatural-feeling.
But listen — grief contains comedy. And despair. And sometimes comedy and despair are indistinguishable. Sometimes you’re crying because the cabbage in your bra is cold and smells weird and keeps falling out when you bend over to try to put on your slippers and you also realize it’s the best clown routine you’ve done in a while. This blog will be non-chronological and non-linear and repetitive (like grief) and will sometimes be sad, funny, happy, hopeful, despairing, petulant, angry, and cheesy (…like grief). Thank you for being here, and thank you for loving Juno.