Grief by Calendar

The calendar on my wall has lulled me into a false sense of security, leaving me blindsided by an unexpected burst of grief.

In July, just after John’s expected due date, I looked at the calendar and thought “I don’t have another EDD/death date until October!”

In my mind, that meant that I had the rest of the summer and part of the fall before I had to pull myself through the anticipated Baby Loss Mama sludge again. If nothing else, I can at least take a personal day and wallow because I know when these feelings are inevitable.

Right?

Then somewhere in the end of July and through the beginning of August, it just hit me – that crushing feeling in my chest. That endless sorrow that I will never be able to shake – that I actually fear losing as if it means I’ll lose the little bit I have of my boys, too.

And it stayed. I wake up and drag myself out of bed and cry on the way to work. Sometimes I cry here in my already depressing oatmeal-colored cubicle that has to be about the worst creative environment for a writer ever. I cry at night. I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to be kissed. I don’t want to hear any noise. I want to sit and cry. And that’s it.

So the summer is now mostly gone. I’ve bought my daughter’s school supplies and I go to work every day.  Clark is crawling – faster and faster every day. He’s smiling and happy and healthy. He’s pure joy.

I am blessed. I live a blessed life. But there just isn’t enough space in my heart for the joy and the grief – and I can’t let go of the grief. So there it lives.