Grief

Grief is a confusing and frustrating thing. Just when you think you are starting to heal, it feels almost as if you're back at the beginning. And although, while knowing "there's no time limit on grief," it still feels like you should be moving on, like you should be "getting over it," like you should feel better than you do.

Today has been hard, for no discernible reason. Maybe it's because it's the 19th. I have a feeling that day will forever be hard. My miscarriage was on the 19th of October. My due date was on the 19th of February. It's a dreaded day. It's a hard day. It was supposed to be a happy day.

I remember feeling, within weeks after leaving the hospital, that I got over things too fast. I felt like a monster, like this baby didn't mean enough to me. I didn't feel sad enough, like there was something wrong with me. There were days when I was so upset that I hadn't thought about the baby for the entire day. I didn't want to forget about her. I didn't want to forget that she existed. I feel like there were far more happier days then than there are now.

It's been five months since the miscarriage. In my mind, I feel like I should be over it by now. I shouldn't be as sad as I am, but today...today feels endless, bottomless, hopeless. There is an unbearable heaviness on my heart. It feels truly like I'm having a continuous panic attack for hours on end, like it's hard to breathe. It hurts to pick my head up, it's a struggle to move my arms, to walk across the room, to keep my eyes open, to write this...

I remember when my stepdad died, saying that there was now such a definitive timeline of things: those that happened "before" and those that happened "after." And that's how it feels now, too. Before this happened, I was happier, optimistic. I rushed to hold any baby, to spend time with any child, to ask parents to see pictures, to hear stories, to surround myself with all things baby. And now, after, god, those conversations hurt. Those pictures crush my spirit, make things feel impossible. Those should be my photos. I should be the one telling stories now.

I got locked in a conversation with two coworkers the other day about babies. The one woman was telling a story about changing her daughter's diaper when she was about three months old - it was a blow-out, a disgusting story. And, it made me so incredibly sad. To think that some day I'd be sad about not being able to clean baby poop off a wall. Grief is weird.

Today is a day that feels impossible. I still struggle with not wanting to forget that that baby existed. I told Ben the other day that I don't want to be sad anymore, but I also don't want to forget our girl. And, it still doesn't feel like those two things can exist at the same time. How can I ever be happy again while still remembering the baby I lost? How can I remember what should have been without feeling an unbelievable emptiness? Some days I think, "If I can just get pregnant again, then I'll feel better," but am I just trying to replace her? No matter how many future babies there are or aren't, that one still existed. She was still real. And we still never got to hold her. She's still gone. And any other ones that are conceived will be different babies. It's not the same.

I have always prided myself in bouncing back from things quickly. I've been through my fair share of difficulties. Things always sort of happen at once for me. The ceiling caves in and the bottom falls out all at once. And this obviously falls solidly into that category. And, at first, I did bounce back fast. The doctors were shocked with how quickly I was better, how soon I wanted to go home, how great I looked a week later. But, emotionally, it feels endless. It's only been and it's already been five months at the same time. There are days when I'm able to tell myself "use this sadness to get you through the next pregnancy. Remember this sadness and do what you have to do to see the next one through." Because, being told I have to give myself daily injections for nearly a year feels impossible to me. They may as well have told me I can't have kids. Days like today, I can't do it. And I'm so scared that there will be too many of these days during an actual pregnancy. What happens on those days when I can't do it? What happens on the days when I'm just too emotionally drained to put myself through it? Again, it feels impossible.

Today, the weight of the world is on my chest. Today, there's a boulder on my heart and an emptiness in my stomach. Today, I resent your baby pictures, and your pregnancy photos, and your happiness. Today, I can't do it. But, grief is weird, and it's unpredictable, and it's confusing. So, tomorrow may be better. Ben and I have a short road trip planned for the weekend coming up, and it will be the first time we've gotten away from everything since it all happened. It's desperately needed. To reconnect with each other, away from the stress, away from the sadness, away from the memories. It's the first thing I've had to look forward to in five months, and I am hoping beyond reason that it will re-energize me and make me feel alive again. In the meantime, I grieve - still - and I try to breathe.