A grieving person works so hard to stack an emotional block that they conquer on top of the other to build strength. At first it was being able to just make it through moment by moment. Then hour by hour. Finally it was day by day. We build on every ounce of strength that we can. However, just like the thing that caused our grief in the first place, it can all come tumbling down at a moment's notice.
This is one example.
Tonight, I am having a moment. Actually 90 moments and counting to be precise. For the last hour and a half I have been overcome with sadness. Leading up to the first of these 90 moments, I felt like I was out of the fog. For the first time, I was on a consecutive run of my head feeling more clear than it had in months. I felt sharp again and that my emotions were not going to get the best of me at any given time. Today I even had a meeting with a vendor that I hadn't seen since ...before... and I was able to handle the elephant in the room without tears or anxiety - as opposed to last week when I was caught off guard running into a pregnant friend I used to volunteer with, a sight in general that I'd worked so hard to avoid because of the trigger, and I could only thank my lucky stars that my sunglasses were on so she didn't see the hot tears about to run down my face. I texted with one of my loss mamas today, telling her that I felt like I was doing really well, that I felt like I was getting it together more and more. I had a pretty tall stack of building blocks built up and then, I don't know what happened.
Tonight we went to try a new place in the neighborhood for a casual patio dinner. We came home, snuggled Georgie Pup and watched Modern Family. I intended to go to bed when Max did, but couldn't. I wasn't tired yet. I decided to watch more TV. Two shows later, I sat there knowing I should go to bed so that I could wake up early, go to barre, have a productive day at work. That way I could build on the way that I was feeling these last two days and be good at "me" again, do my job well not just go through the motions, struggling to keep my head above water. Instead of moving from the couch, I sat there and let the sadness creep in. It was a simple thought that flashed through my mind, how the hell did all of this happen, how did I get here? My gaze shifted and I stared at the closed door to the nursery, then the tears began to fall. Emotions won the battle, I surrendered.
Maybe it was fifteen or twenty minutes later, I reigned the emotions back in to pull myself together and told myself that's all for tonight. I went halfway to that place but didn't want to go all the way into the darkness of my grief. Not tonight. I tiptoed into our room to get in bed. George was sprawled in my spot. As I slid him over and eased myself into bed, he coiled up next to me. I pet him and rubbed his belly, then felt the dark emotions rising again, silent-crying into his fur. His intuition let me love on him before his old-man nature got annoyed and he moved away from me and went to snuggle a sleeping Max, rubbing his nose on his arm. Max responded in his sleep by wrapping his arm around him and holding the pup. I looked at that image, thinking what a good Dad my husband would be right now. A Dad: it's what he is but he doesn't have his baby to be one to. And what kicks you hard in the gut when you're already down is not knowing when that day will ever come.
I had to get up and leave the room. Time to watch more TV, to escape reality by watching someone else's fake reality of the dramatic or satirical nature. Something to take us out of our own mind and give us a temporary relief. It's now almost 1 AM, tomorrow is going to be super fun.
At this point, I negotiate with myself. I can't wake up in four hours to get to barre, and still remotely fire on even half my cylinders to pretend to function for a long day at work. So I turned my alarm off, putting my physical health on the back burner to try to salvage my professional appearance. Then I think about my physical health and we start to go down a vain bunny trail for a little while. At 33 weeks, I had gained 24 pounds from my pregnancy. When I got home from the hospital, I was down 9 lbs instantly, a week out I got to a total of 15 lbs lost and then I stalled out. The heartbreak diet isn't the same on this 31 year old body as it was in my early twenties. I try to work harder on myself, but then I get sad and my physical health suffers. I don't want to go on walks, I don't want to wake up early and get out of bed, after work I just want to come home. I still have my baby weight, I can't fit into most of my pre-pregnancy clothes, my thick pregnancy hair is finally starting to fall out in clumps but I don't have my baby with me. I don't have anything to show for any of it, just pain and feeling like I failed. I failed him. I couldn't protect him. I couldn't keep him alive.
I cry more. My body is not the same, it won't be the same. It's a daily reminder that I've been through hell and Hudson is gone. Each day when I try to wear something that's still a tad too small or stare in the mirror after the shower at a squishy torso and stretch marks on my hips, I have utter disdain for this version of myself, both outwardly and for the way I feel on the inside 75% of the time.
Enter Self-Loathing. It's a fantastic phase, y'all. It takes any insecurity you have ever had and springboards it at you when you least expect it, like target practice. I'm a thirty-one year old woman with a successful career, a loving husband, wonderful family and friends. I moved on from this smattering of petty things years ago. Well, not anymore. When it comes on, I don't want to go in public, I don't want to be in a picture, I don't want to be seen because I don't want the voices in my head - those nagging insecurities - to eat away at me. I'd rather hide away to help silence my mind. Either way, the insecurities win.
It's now nearing 2:00 am. I'm out of Kleenex. My head and eyes are throbbing to the point that I want to close them, so sleep seems like it is the next logical step. I don't want to wake Max up. Suddenly, I want to go all the way to the dark place because it's where I feel the closest to what has been lost. I go into the nursery and take his hospital blanket out of the little dresser drawer. I crawl in the bed, thinking how stupid the last hour of thoughts have been. None of that matters. I just want my baby. I flip through the photos on my phone that documented my pregnancy: the growing bump pics, sonograms, the nursery décor, little things I wanted to remember to get, a picture of my baby shower invitation. Then there are my pictures I have of us with him, his sweet little feet attached to those long legs. Those dark curls, tiny ears, turned up nose, full cheeks, peaked lips and dimpled chin. I sob myself to sleep. My last thought before that space went quiet was that I should be up right now feeding my child, not mourning him. This bed I am sleeping in shouldn't be in here, it should've gone to my parents house to make room for the crib. I should still be on maternity leave, cherishing the last few weeks with my sweet boy. If I were crying right now it would be because I'm not ready to go back to work soon, not because my baby died. I shouldn't be doing anything that I've been doing these last four months. This shouldn't be our life. But it is.
Morning came too early. I wanted to stay inside that room and away from the rest of the world. I negotiate with myself again and the inner pep talk starts. It's time to pull yourself together and put this on hold again until next time. You have a three page to-do list to get through today. Run a brush through your hair, find something that fits, cover the sorrow with makeup and just try to have a better day.
Time to start re-building the blocks and march on to conquer another day.
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