I was here and here. I was in that place where it felt weird, but I could honestly say it was just another of my scars...no longer a gaping wound.
And, with everything in my being, I want to be back there again.
A friend nailed it on the head when she said, "You know, you've been here before and probably expect yourself to be an expert at this grieving business, but having been there before doesn't make it easier or quicker, does it? Maybe it makes it harder to wait for the "good" days you know will eventually come?"
Honestly, it IS harder because I can't stop thinking...WHAT was I thinking? But if I'm honest, I have to admit that I did it to myself. I walked into oncoming traffic with my eyes wide open and just my crossed fingers to protect me. I didn't realistically consider how I would handle it if the baby actually died. I foolishly believed it couldn't happen...not to us...not AGAIN. I'd paid my dues and I was all set for balance to be restored. Because, really, what were the odds?
HA! HA! HA! HAHAHAHAHA!
And now here I am...jealous of everyone. Naive pregnant women. Women who've suffered loss but learned to live with it. Women who've just suffered their first loss even (how sick is that?).
THREE! Can you fucking believe it?!?!
I won't ask what I did to deserve this...because nobody deserves any of this. But I can't help but ask what I did so differenly than other women that I should have to bury three children? What is it about ME that makes the oh-so-natural process of pregnancy and chidlbirth such a nightmare?
In the end, I guess it doesn't really matter...no answers will bring peace...
They asked if we wanted genetic testing on "the baby." We said no. What's the point?
So I wear high heels and contemplate new hairstyles and slash away at my husband who is just doing the best he can to make it through another of my failures. I consider "flipping out" and quitting my job...maybe making chocolate chip cookies...maybe getting on an airplane and just going (I don't care where)...or breaking all the dishes in my kitchen. The possibilities are endless.
The course of antibiotics is over. A week. Time to get back to work. The phone calls come and I can't answer, for fear of bursting into tears on an unsuspecting client.
After a week, I fit back in my regular pants...as if nothing ever happened. As if it was all a dream.
When I knew Little Bug was dead, this is what I wanted...to just get back to my life.
Here I am.