“I Will Be Blessed” by Ben Howard
Heaven is a place we hold.
Heaven is the arms that hold us
Long before we go
If you’re there
When the world comes to gather me in
I will be blessed
Heaven is a place we hold.
Heaven is the arms that hold us
Long before we go
If you’re there
When the world comes to gather me in
I will be blessed
I can still see you holding my three-week-old daughter in our living room, rocking in the glider. You offered to stay overnight at our place and help out with the night feedings on occasion, and we gladly took you up on the offer.
You cradled her in your arms, your gaze landing on her tiny face, your hands tracing her tiny hands. You said, “Oh… This is the best.”
“Really?” I asked, thinking of how unbelievably sleep-deprived I was. “The newborn part? Not when they were older?”
“Well…” You paused for a moment, before breaking into a wide grin, “Actually, it was all pretty awesome. But this… I just have such fond memories of my nursing my boys.”
I smiled. You rocked.
“But honestly,” you said. “I really loved it all. Every moment of it. I’d do it all over if I could.”
We talked for a time about your health, as you had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer several years earlier.
“I remember praying to God,” you said, “And I said, ‘Well, if this is my time, then it’s my time…'” Then you broke into that same wide grin, “I thought, ‘But, I sure hope it’s not!’ Turned out it wasn’t yet, and now I’m just grateful for every day I have here.”
After the initial shock that you had recently passed wore off, I combed over my memories of you. Things you had said to me first as a student, and then later as a kind of occasional life mentor. And I arrived at a common refrain:
I’m sorry I couldn’t see what you were trying to show me.
I remember all those times when I was your student and I was working through physics problems. Rather than teaching the laws of physics deductively without fully understanding their application, you used a clever, inductive reasoning approach to help students discover the laws for themselves.
I didn’t realize how clever of a method it was. I just knew it was making me think. A lot. And because I didn’t trust my own logic and judgment, it made me nervous.
When I’d come to you with a set of questions or completed problems, ready for you to approve so I could move on to the next module, I remember thinking…
I hope I got the answers right.
I hope I don’t look stupid in front of you.
I hope I don’t let you down.
I remember you gently asking me to consider, once again, what was the difference between acceleration and velocity.
You knew how to talk to a fragile overachiever like me. You didn’t tell me I was wrong. You just asked me to “tighten up” my understanding.
You were also merciful to the class as a whole. I remember a time when our entire class failed a quiz. You stood at the room, your right hand clutching the frayed edges of notebook paper, and you said somberly, “Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news. The bad news is…everyone failed.”
A brief moment passed to let that information sink in.
“The good news,” you continued cheerfully, “is that you can take a second quiz to replace that awful grade!”
For you, there was never failure. There were just more opportunities to try again.
For you, it was never about arriving at a destination.
It was always about the journey.
I wish I could have seen it that way. I wish you could have brainwashed me completely into seeing the world as full of wonder and possibilities.
It makes me sad to admit it, but I held myself back in your class.
I wish I could have let go of my fear of getting a bad grade in order to really embrace the deeper mysteries that this universe holds.
But I was young and insecure. I defined myself by what I achieved. And if I didn’t achieve, who was I? What did I have to define myself?
And so, I wouldn’t allow myself to imagine a future in which I was uncertain of whether or not I would succeed. I wouldn’t take the risk of pursuing a career in science or math. Because I was convinced that eventually, people would realize that I was an impostor. It would all catch up with me and I would fail.
So instead, I would carve out a path on which I wouldn’t fail.
Because, after all, what was worse than failing?
I was young. I was insecure.
After high school, I stayed in touched with you because your son married my good friend, Linda. I saw you over the years at get-togethers at your house or Linda’s house, and each time, you were the same: smiling, laughing, joyful.
You still peppered your speech with intonation and emphasis that made a lot of what you were saying into either Great News! or A Good Joke!
You were always interested in what I had to say, no matter what I talked about. You were that way with everyone, I think, and it’s why people loved you. You cared about what people said. You didn’t just listen–you heard people. Maybe this was because you found joy, real joy, in the happiness of others.
This is partly what made you such a great teacher: You were able to see me as a whole, complicated, unique person, someone more than just the scared-of-math-and-science teenage girl sitting on the left side of your class from August 1999 to May 2000.
But your willingness to being authentic with me also helped me see you as a whole, complicated, unique person.
Reciprocity like that is rare. And it is powerful.
Last night, I had a dream. It was one of those recurring dreams that you feel like you’ve had hundreds of times before (and it’s a mystery to you why you’ve always forgotten about it in your waking life).
I was walking a perfectly paved path, high in the most beautiful, lush mountains I’ve ever seen. But it wasn’t cold. Even the highest peaks had no snow. As I walked that path, I was completely free of any responsibility that I’ve ever had. I was so untethered, I felt like I was floating.
I was so, so full of joy.
And the music. If I knew how to compose music, I could have written out all of the notes when I woke up this morning. But that memory is fading.
What stays with me from this dream is my certainty that I was coming back.
I had been there before. Many times.
And I was home among something beautiful and wild that had missed me as much as I had missed it. And my joy was coming from the realization that I had been away for so long on a journey that had taken me everywhere but here. That everything I needed to do and everything that people needed from me was completely finished.
But it was the journey that made my coming home so joyful. For how can you be as joyful to see something that you never left?
It was all those moments spent with my own students, from countries far and wide, who first awakened my own curiosity in other ways of seeing the world. The same ones who helped me open my mind to the fact that (shockingly) there were so many ways of seeing and living in the same world.
It was all the times I thought well, this well definitely be the thing that breaks me… and then it wasn’t.
It was all the happiness, the stories, the hugs, the missed chances, the blatant mistakes, the fights, the kisses, the stress, the doubts, and all the uncertainty of the journey…
That made coming home so joyful.
What happens when we die?
I used to be so certain of the answer to that.
I used to be so well-educated on all things spiritual, particularly in my senior year of high school. I had answers, and those answers were supported by carefully selected Bible verses.
But I’m being a lot more honest with myself these days.
And I’m willing to say, I don’t know.
What happens when we die?
During my morning runs this week, I thought about this over and over again.
If we are more than body, what happens to us? Where do we go? Do we travel to some higher dimension that we can’t possibly imagine with our three-dimensional brain? Will I return to this heaven in the mountains, some strange place that calls to me for reasons I don’t understand? Do we review our lives in retrospect, weighing everything we’ve done? Do we wait between worlds until we feel ready to move on? Are we re-united with the ones we’ve lost? Or do we lose all sense of self and join a larger, higher consciousness? And what would that even be like?
I thought a lot as I ran.
And then clarity hit me.
I was finally doing the thing that you were trying to teach me.
I was wondering.
I was in wonder.
I was allowing myself to not have the answers. To allow myself to live in the space of uncertainty. And I was doing it without thinking of myself as a failure.
Isn’t that what you were trying to teach us the whole time?
To wonder? To think?
To allow yourself to not have the answers, but by God, to think about it.
Sometimes, clarity hits you in odd ways.
Sometimes, it comes to you as you think about a loved one passing.
Sometimes, it seems almost supernatural.
Because when I slowed to a walk during one of my morning runs, I looked over at the sign for the apartment complex down the street. Lots of things around here are named “Normandy.” Normandy United Methodist Church. Normandy Elementary. Normandy Ridge Road.
But in that moment, the sign of the apartment complex was partially covered.
And all I saw was,
It was my honor to have met you in life. I hope we meet again, if that’s what happens when we die.
If you see my dad (You can’t miss him. He’s about 6′ 3″, mostly bald, and he’ll be wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, tucked into his swim trunks, which he calls his wrestling todds), please tell him that I’d give anything to listen to one of his annoying political rants, even if it meant hearing the words Make America Great Again hundreds of times–as long as he makes me his Famous Thresherman’s Breakfast when he’s done.
Four years later. Still hard.
One of my father’s favorite songs was, “Daystar.”
He particularly loved it as sung by our small church’s music minister, Darrell Sproles.
Lily of the Valley,
Let your sweet aroma fill my life
Rose of Sharon show me
How to grow in beauty in God’s sight
Fairest of ten thousand
Make me a reflection of your light
Daystar shine down on me
Let your love shine through me in the night
When it was sung at his funeral in June 2014, it meant a lot to me that my name was in the first few lines.
If I could talk to him now, what would I say?
After I’m sorry for ever causing you pain and I love you,
I probably would tell him that his grandchildren would have loved to have known him.
He always had a very tender way with kids aged 2-5.
Love you, Dad.
My absolute worst fear is suffering the death of one of my children.
I can imagine coming to grips with the death of anyone in my life.
Except my children.
Last Friday, I was reading my Facebook feed and read a horrific post from a member of my church.
Her daughter-in-law, Britney, was driving on a two-lane road with her five-year-old daughter, Jocelyn, and two-month-old son, Jonah, in the backseat.
You already know how this story ends.
An oncoming car illegally crossed the center to pass a car.
It killed the little girl.
The mother and baby boy survived.
In the picture, Jocelyn was balancing on one foot, as if in the midst of dancing. She was posed proudly with her baby brother. Smiling. Blond and smiling. Happy. Just like my daughter.
There at my desk, I cried.
Britney was me. Her kids were my kids.
And my heart was broken for her.
All of this happened just days before Mother’s Day.
It was too cruel and unfair for one person to bear.
How could Britney face life and the world, now knowing, now feeling every day, that horrific things like that can happen?
Just like that.
How could she keep going?
But of course I know how.
We all know how.
She’s a mother.
This is stuff that mothers are made of.
Loving through pain.
Living while part of you is dying.
Believing through despair and doubt.
Resiliency beyond measure.
Pure grit and strength.
Britney has already undergone several surgeries to repair her broken bones, including her pelvis. She has been moved out of the ICU and into the trauma unit. (And let’s not forget the fact that she’s just three months postpartum.)
Her newborn son also suffered extensive injuries. Two broken femurs and a broken arm.
He is currently being cared for around the clock by his grandmother, Lanae, who works as a surgical nurse. He couldn’t be in better hands while his mother is recovering.
I made myself imagine what I would do if I were living Britney’s reality.
What would I do?
I would sob and ache and grovel and resent and rage.
For a Long Time.
I would lash out and blame and despair.
I would be out for blood. I would crave Revenge. I would want to hurt and crush and obliterate. I would want to empty the life of the person who didn’t think first, who would rather take a risk, who thought the laws didn’t apply to him.
(Because I think first. Because I don’t want to take the risk. Because I don’t think the laws don’t apply to me.)
And while I would be going through this, I would still have to Get Back Up.
Although I would want to take time off from Life to mourn and process and make meaning, I would have to immediately Get Back Up.
For my son.
Because he would still need to eat and sleep and grow.
He would still need my arms to tell him that he is safe, even though I had just seen how unsafe the world can be.
I would need to decide every hour to keep on practicing the appearance of Love even though I’d be simultaneously steeling my heart from the possibility of Future Pain.
Because Love would have just killed off a part of me.
Love had created a trove of beautiful moments of my little girl — but now there would be no more. And the more time that would pass, the more those memories would lose their clarity. And if I forgot any part of those memories, it would be like losing her all over again.
All I really would want to do is climb into the ground with her so she wouldn’t be alone in the dark.
I would be like this for a Long Time.
But I also know that One Day, through the crisis and search to find meaning, I would finally choose Love again.
Because Love is the only path to Peace.
I would keep walking.
I used to pray that Life Would Be Okay and Get Better. But I’ve stopped doing that.
Because that’s not what Life is for. The life worth living isn’t a life without pain because the pain is what shows us life’s worth.
When I say prayers now, it is in moments for others who are in pain.
And the prayer is that they keep moving
And keep walking through the pain
And that if they fall, that God will reach a Hand down to help them get back up.
Our hearts ache with yours in your time of hurting and grieving. My prayer for you is that you keep walking through the pain. Keep moving. And keep believing that there is good in the world even though it is also so very bad at times. In fact, perhaps the world is good because it is bad.
Years from now, I hope that you can look back at these dark hours of your life and see all the light that people are shining on it. It’s always the people who have suffered and cried and walked the Path of Pain that will be the first to reach out their hands to you. Take those hands. Let them help you get back up. And don’t feel guilty about it. You are not a burden.
Because Some Day, it will be you who is the one reaching out and saving someone else.
You are not alone.
And you are Loved.
If you would like to help this family financially as they cope with medical and funeral expenses, you can contribute through their GoFundMe fundraiser here.
No gift is too small and you can give anonymously if you prefer.
If you would like to provide financial assistance to Lanae as she takes care of Jonah full-time, you can donate here.
It was one of those unusual days that turned into an unusual night.
Work was hectic. I was getting geared up to travel in a few days. I was attending an in-town conference that included networking dinners.
And the grocery shopping still needed to happen.
So there I am at Kroger at 9:30 on a Friday night, nodding my head to “Name” by the Goo Goo Dolls, which I find oddly comforting. It takes me back to a world where my chief concerns were learning how to write a thesis statement and whether or not that boy in geometry would ever want to talk to me about more than just my homework answers.
Then, I groan as I put it all together. I’ve entered the phase of my life when I’m part of the most heavily marketed demographic for advertisers: young mothers.
I load the cart with the fruit collection (apples, pears, oranges, bananas, and berries of all kinds), the veggie collection (broccoli, carrots, lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes), a bunch of food from the “hippie section” because my husband is allergic to X, Y, and Z, then I swing by the health and beauty section to pick up travel size contact solution.
I’m tired. I’ve been getting up at 5:00 a.m. so I can work out before the day begins rather than coming home luxuriously at 3:00 p.m. to exercise before I pick up my daughter from daycare. My FitBit reads 11, 534, 11,355, 11, 536.
As I draw near the checkout lanes, a lady turns her register’s light on and beckons me. Her short hair tapers and ends against her neck, just barely brushing her collar. She adjusts her dark-rimmed glasses and starts sorting my groceries. Even though it’s late, she still rapidly types in the codes of all my produce–from memory of course.
“And are you having a fantastic night?” she chirps.
I roll my eyes. “I mean, where else would I rather be?” I joke.
She laughs. “Well, at least it will be over soon.”
“I can’t wait. This day just keeps going and going…”
We laugh together, but then I instantly feel the need to dial back my complaining. I wonder how many hours she has been on her feet today. I remember how hard all those hours of cashiering at Target were on me–and I had a teenage body during those years.
“What about you?” I ask. “When do you get off?”
“I’m off at 11:00,” she smiles, “And then I’ll get a good six hours before I get up and go to the nursing home.”
She tells me that she has been volunteering at a nursing home in downtown Dayton for the last twenty years, mostly as a companion. She even brings her daughter, who is now in high school.
“It’s hard sometimes, you know…” she says, “When you get to know the residents, all about their lives and their families. Nothing really prepares you for when they transition.”
I nod along as she talks, until she gets to that word, transition.
I know what she means, of course, but I’m struck by the word. I’ve never heard of someone refer to death in this way. But she keeps on going as if what she has just said is completely mainstream. She talks a little more, but I’m still stuck on how she has framed the concept of death.
We say good-bye to each other and I look down at her name tag.
It says Sway.
After four days at the TESOL 2016 Convention in Baltimore, Maryland, I’m sitting in the airport with three of my colleagues, all of us eager to get back to our normal lives.
As I’m sitting at the gate waiting for my plane, I flip through four days of notes and start to make lists of things to do, things to read, and things to consider. A complete distillation of what I’ve learned in the past four days–at least as much as I can manage before my memories fade too much.
But then I hear applause.
And then more applause.
And then more applause.
I stand up to see if I can figure out what’s going on. I see a few American flags and I think, Oh, some soldiers are coming home. That’s sweet.
I go back to my notes. But then there’s more applause. And more. And more.
A crowd gathers.
“What is going on over there?” I ask my colleague, Olena.
“Just go and see, if you want.”
As I draw near the gathering crowd, I see that a few hundred people have gathered around a gate and a line of formally attired soldiers are each shaking hands with an old man who is being pushed in a wheelchair.
I think I understand, but I want to make sure. I ask a stranger next to me.
“It’s an honor flight,” she says. “For World War II veterans.”
One by one, about forty veterans travel down this corridor of applause, as these young soldiers reach out to shake their hands. People cheer and applaud. They take video and pictures. One of the veterans buries his head in his hands and the audience responds with even more cheers.
It takes time and a lot of corralling, but the lead organizer of the honor flight manages to take a group picture.
Sunday afternoon. Back at the grocery store. Since we only need to get a few small items, I let my daughter push the just-right-for-her-size kid’s cart through the maze of Sunday afternoon shoppers. I leave a hand on the edge of the cart to make sure she doesn’t plow over someone else’s foot by accident.
When we finally approach the registers, I fall into a line that is three customers deep, which seems to be typical for this time of day.
The line advances. And that’s when I see Sway.
She smiles when she sees me. I tell her that I just got back from my trip and she asks how it went. I tell her about the honor flight and the World War II veterans and her face lights up.
“It’s funny,” I say. “I was hoping that I could tell you about it and here you are.”
“Well, it makes sense,” she says. “It’s all connected.”
I turn this idea over and over again on the way home.
I am in middle school. And I have a crush on a boy. Let’s call him John Smith.
He’s in my reading class and he sits in the back left corner of the room. I sit in the front right corner.
One day, as I enter the room, our eyes meet for a moment. We don’t smile at each other. It happens so fast, I can’t even tell if he’s just looking to see who it is or if he actually intends to look at me.
Terrified, I look away and take my seat.
I spend the rest of class wondering if he wanted to look at me. Me. Just another overweight girl who was too shy to talk to anyone besides her close friends.
When the bell rings, I look around the room and catch his eye again. We still don’t smile at each other, but he doesn’t make a face or look away.
When I hear this song on the radio as I’m doing my homework, it strikes me. Maybe I’m in love.
I don’t feel like it’s safe to write about this in my diary, so instead, I write I love John Smith over and over on each of my biceps. It’s winter, so my sweaters will cover it up, I reason. I don’t know why it makes me feel better to write this on my arms. But I feel like this is what a girl does when she falls in love. She covers herself with the one she loves–until he’s the only thing she sees in the mirror.
I listen to the radio on my very own CD/cassette player that I’ve bought with my own babysitting money. I don’t have enough money left over for CDs. So in the afternoons, I turn on the radio and press down the play, record, and pause buttons on the cassette tape deck. Then, I wait for a good song to come on.
But I miss this one.
This song is deceptive. It comes on softly, like a ballad, and at first, I don’t think it’s for me. It’s too slow and I can’t understand all of his words, but then he sings out a line that strikes me.
And now my bitter hands… shake beneath the clouds… of what was everything
All the pictures had… all been washed in black… tattooed everything.
I wonder what it’s like to have your heart broken like this. To be so in love that losing it turns your world to black.
It makes me believe that to be so in love is the best and worst that can ever happen to me. And I want it to happen to me.
But I doubt that it would ever happen to a pudgy girl like me.
“Vindicated” by Dashboard Confessionals
I’m driving in my 1990 Geo Metro with the windows down because this car doesn’t have A/C (or power steering, for that matter). My hair is pulled back to keep it from flying in front of my eyes. And this song is blaring out on the radio.
I am flawed.
But I am cleaning up so well.
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself.
I’m in love.
I have become interesting. I am loved for my intelligence and drive. My ambition and my doubts. I have become a person with depth, even views on politics. As we talk, my thoughts and curiosities and unspoken plans come flooding out and I shock myself. I’m not putting on a face. I’m not acting a part. I’m finally articulating everything that I’ve been feeling deep in my soul.
I stop obsessing about which jeans and shirts make me look the thinnest. I start enjoying food rather than seeing it as what stands in the way of me being fully loved.
And I am loved for it.
It makes me cry. It makes me feel that I’ve been lying to myself for years. That I’ve been trying to be “the girl that guys love,” some amalgamation of images and insinuations from TV and movies and books about what makes women desirable.
I feel cheated that I’ve lost so many years playing this game.
I’m at a funeral for a friend.
Her family gathers around her casket at the burial site and a soulful older woman begins singing this song. Soon, the whole family is singing together, a hymn that I know intimately, one that I had sung hundreds of times in my Southern Baptist Church.
In the cross, in the cross, be my glory ever
’til my raptured soul shall find rest beyond the river.
It feels like a lie.
My friend didn’t believe in Jesus. I haven’t seen her in years, but I know that much. She loved the idea of magic and truly wished that it existed in this world. She believed in the beauty of a phoenix rising from ashes. She loved symbols and ideas. But religion? Never.
She didn’t leave a note. She didn’t tell anyone what her plans were. She just did it.
With her father’s gun.
On a Friday night.
It’s not until this moment, as her body is lowered into the ground, while her family sings a song that she would have hated but is the only comfort that they can find in this day, that I begin to reconcile this stark contrast.
I begin to believe that people believe what they find comforting–or at least what validates or supports how they want to live life.
And when they can’t live out their beliefs, they destroy themselves. Or others.
And so I think that wherever she is, she is happier than she was on earth.
I’m leaving Piqua, Ohio, driving on I-75 South, leaving another funeral.
This time, it is my husband’s close friend and co-worker. A guy he had shared a desk with for the past three years.
It’s one of those deaths that makes you think, Really? Bled to death from a burst vein in his throat? The doctors couldn’t do anything about that?
It feels like a cruel, cruel mistake. Like he went through the wrong door and it slammed behind him before he could turn back. On one side of the door is him. On the other side is his wife, his two stepchildren, and his three-year-old daughter.
True, he wasn’t in great health. He chewed tobacco and subsisted on a diet of cheesy, meaty Penn Station sandwiches that he called heartstoppers. And, yes, he bragged about never touching vegetables.
But he was only 33.
On the way home, I continue listening to the Cold Mountain soundtrack that I’ve just bought. When “Idumea” comes on, I feel my heart tighten in my chest.
And I am I born to die?
To lay this body down!
Soon as from earth I go
What will become of me?
I think about my own mortality.
I want to know that I’m more than a collection of emotions and memory, fueled by food and organs, all covered in skin. I want to be more than all the decisions that I’ll spend my entire life either being proud of or rationalizing.
I want to believe that some part of me is more than brain and body. That part of me is immaterial. Immortal. Impossible to fall into ruin and decay.
I think about whether it’s possible for me to believe in no afterlife. But I’m not sure I have it in me to believe in nothingness after life. My mind cannot even fathom it. But I still think about it the rest of the day.
The thoughts circle in my mind for two more days.
Then, I decide to live.
In the following week, I decide to truly learn about how to portion my food, how to balance what I eat and how much of it to eat. I start drinking water all day every day. I buy a cardio kickboxing program on DVDs.
I drop from 175 pounds to 135 pounds in the next ten months.
My husband and I are driving on the Hana Highway that runs along the northern coast of Maui when we see dozens of surfers out on the waves. We’re riding in a Mazda5 with four of our friends: Ryan, Cate, Ben, and Sarah. It’s the second day of our week-long vacation away from cold, gray Ohio. Our plans for the days are eating and doing whatever looks interesting.
And this looks interesting.
We pull over at an overlook and pile out of the car. Ryan, Cate, and I lean against the railing, pointing at the surfers’ daring moves. They paddle like fiends toward the incoming waves. We watch them stand up on their boards, wobbling until they find their balance. The waves are high. They are tunneling rolling monsters that swallow the surfers over and over again, only for more surfers to replace them. After a wave takes a few of them down, one or two of them escape the wave and skid away safely onto calm waters before they sit back on their boards, looking for the next one. Always the next one.
Holy shit! Did you see that? Get that guy! Ben points out to Doug, who is attached to his camera, angling for the best shot.
Somewhere nearby, a car blares this song over its speakers and it’s all too perfect.
I. Am. So. Happy.
Six months later, I hear this same song at an outdoor music festival in Columbus, Ohio. Instantly, I’m back in Maui.
August 16, 2013
It’s 2:00 a.m.
I am in the Mother & Baby room after giving birth to my daughter. All the nurses and doctors have left. My husband sleeps on the couch next to my bed. My new daughter sleeps in her glass bassinet next to my bed. Aching and hurting everywhere, I lie on my side and watch her sleep. No music is playing, but from somewhere in the recesses of my memory, this song comes forth.
I had a good life, before you came.
I had my friends and my freedom. I had my name.
Still there was sorrow and emptiness, ’til you made me glad.
Oh, in this love, I found the strength, I never knew I had.
I am utterly amazed by myself. That I could grow this perfect human being. That I could survive something as painful and soul-testing as birth–and then live to talk about it.
I know that everyone calls this love, but if I’m honest with myself, I know that what I’m feeling is something completely different.
I know now what it costs to bring life into the world.
For the rest of the night, I slip in and out of consciousness as I play this song over and over again in my mind, watching her sleep.
I’m on maternity leave. My one-month-old daughter sleeps in her bassinet upstairs while I’m washing dishes downstairs. Next to the kitchen, the washer is whirring in the laundry room. Late summer sunlight peeks through the blinds. My eyes are so heavy. I find it funny that sleep is not like other things in life. When it presses down on you, you feel light. But when it leaves you, you feel heavy.
This song comes up on Pandora and I’m bobbing my head to it. Then, my hips are swaying. I drop the dishes in the dishwasher over and over again, almost mechanically, getting lost in the song. But that is my life now. Mechanical, repetitive movements chugging along at regular intervals. I close the dishwasher as the song heightens.
I turn it up. And up. And up some more.
It’s in my ears, in my mind, in my limbs, filling me up until I’m nothing but the notes of this song. I close my eyes and I’m pivoting on my toes, twirling and sliding, arms uplifted like the ballerina I never was.
I am lightness.
I’m in the living room, the dining room, I’m everywhere. I’m nowhere. I’m beyond this life that is now mine: endless repeating tasks, punctuated by a face that I’m desperately in love with. One that I’m forever tied to.
I’m my former self.
I’m a self that I have never been and probably never will be.
Until the song slows and quiets and ends. Until its heartbeat stops.
In the silence, I sit down on the ground, resting back against my heels.
Then, I cry.
October 5, 2014
I’m at Ryan and Cate’s wedding.
The air is chilly, but we’re warm in the party barn at Polen Farm in Kettering, Ohio. We have danced and danced. We have taken this reception by the arms and spun it around. Melt With You, Careless Whispers, Tongue Tied, Jackson 5’s ABC. I dance the shit out of this reception with Cate and Julie and Katy and Suzy. Even Sarah dances. Jason and David spend the hours knocking back beers and mixed drinks and wine. Ben and Chris are reminiscing. It’s a glorious four hours.
Then, this song comes on and we separate into slow-dancing couples. As I dance with my husband, I look over at my newly married friends, feeling beyond happy for them.
Josh pulls away from Suzy and tugs at Sam’s sleeve. He says something to him. Then, he’s on Ben’s sleeve. Then, Sarah’s. Soon, he’s got everyone gathered in a circle around Ryan and Cate.
And that’s how we finish the song. Dancing in a circle around these good friends, Cate’s face pressed against Ryan’s chest, trying to cover her tears.
I. Am. So. Happy.
“Awake My Soul” by Mumford and Sons
It’s 20 degrees outside and I’m running.
It has been two weeks since the miscarriage. The bleeding is over. The healing begins. I start exercising again, but the dance/cardio-kickboxing doesn’t feel right. I suddenly realize that I need to feel at least a little sexy to want to dance.
And I do not feel sexy in the slightest right now.
So I put on layers, a jacket, and gloves. If I could run in a sleeping bag, I would.
My eyes watch out for ice and snow along the sidewalk as I run past an apartment complex, the post office, and several doctors’ offices. Past the body shop and the Donato’s. My breathing hits its rhythm and the burning in my legs has numbed.
In these bodies, we will live.
In these bodies, we will die.
And where you invest your love,
You invest your life.
And that’s it.
That simple truth makes this all the more bearable.
We love. We lose. We feel pain.
And if we’re really lucky, we find our truest selves along the way.
All of it is beautiful.
Because all of it is life.
December 3, 2005
And so today, I give myself to you, to share our lifetimes together, be it the best times or the worst. And if I ever want out, I promise to you to remember today. To remember you, to remember the first time that I ever saw your face, to remember every tear we shed in joy to cover every tear we’ll someday shed in pain. I promise to never give up on you, on us, or our life together.
When you love someone who is hurting, your first thought is to find a way to make their pain go away. But as you live with someone who is hurting, you begin to understand that covering the pain doesn’t help them. And erasing it is impossible.
The only way out of pain is to go through it.
All you can do is listen.
And be ready with open hands when they finally reach out.
December 31, 2015
We step off the elevators and round the corner.
Maternity Unit, the sign reads.
A hospital employee scans her ID and the doors open for us.
“This way,” she passes another sign. Maternity Triage.
I think, Here? This is where we’re going?
While my nurse prepares a space for me, I sit on a bed across from a curtained area where a woman breathes and moans. It sounds like she is nearly in active labor. When she is silent, I feel jealousy. When she moans, I feel compassion.
“Why are we here?” my husband asks. “Just to kick you in the teeth while you’re down?”
I knew what kind of guy I was falling in love with when we ended one of our first dates by sitting on the monkey bars of his old elementary school.
We were 21 years old, enjoying that hazy week of post-Christmas and pre-New Year freedom. Life was full of movies and eating out and driving nowhere in particular while listening to Radiohead.
We climbed to the top of the bars, our breath coming out in white puffs. The night sky was clear and studded with stars. I was freezing. Absolutely freezing.
And I didn’t care.
We held hands.
Then he said, “I forgot the specific heat of steel was so low.”
I laughed. And laughed.
He was the one. I already knew.
“We just need to get your IV started, draw some blood, and do some paperwork,” my nurse says as she taps away on the computer’s keyboard. She has mercifully moved us to the back of triage, away from the laboring women. “And then you’ll be all ready.”
I lift my hand to my lips and close my eyes. Start an IV… Here we go.
“Are you okay?” she asks in a tone that really means, Are you feeling a lot of emotions right now?
But I’m not thinking about the fact that my baby has died. Not right now. Instead, I’m wondering how hard it’s going to be for her to find a vein.
“So my veins are really small and they roll…” I warn her.
“Let me just take a look.”
She places the tourniquet high on my left arm, rubbing, prodding, tapping. She examines my forearm, somewhere comfortable. Then to the right arm. Repeat.
“Okay, I see what you mean,” she says.
Back to the left forearm.
The cool alcohol swab. The stick. The immediate sting, the burn. I squirm. I yell. The needle pulls away.
I know she hasn’t found a vein.
As I start sobbing, I reach out for Doug and bury my head in his neck. All of my emotions rush forward. All of my thoughts from the past two weeks explode in my consciousness and I let them run wild.
Our baby has died.
Two and a half weeks ago.
I want to let it go.
I don’t want to be its tomb anymore.
Isn’t it enough that I’m ready to let it go?
I don’t want to hurt anymore.
My nurse rubs my knee through the blanket covering my legs. With my eyes squeezed shut, I can hear her sniffing. That is how I know that she is crying too.
Shortly after we started dating, Doug saw his mother for the last time.
Lost to her delusional world of paranoia and conspiracy, she cut everything and everyone loose. Parents. Siblings. Husband. Children. Grandchildren. As she slithered away from everyone who loved her, she curled into herself as a last means of self-protection.
In a last ditch effort, Doug tried to talk to her one last time. That was thirteen years ago.
When it ended badly, I held him and his tears darkened my sleeves. I cried with him as he mourned the loss of his living mother.
It was just one of the first emotional storms that we weathered together.
I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. But after I came to grips with the words no cardiac activity, I was ready to let go.
The nausea left. The fatigue lifted. My metabolism picked up.
But no blood.
My body held on. It refused to let go.
So I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
How do you find your way into a body that doesn’t want to open up?
My nurse re-examines my right arm starting at the forearm. She rubs and prods my arm, moving down until she is gripping my fingers. She rolls my fingers this way and that, my knuckles moving in waves. The cold swab, the sting of the needle again.
So much hotter and sharper.
I yell. I cry.
She pulls the needle out. “I’m so sorry, hon… I’m going to ask someone else to take a look.”
My teeth start chattering. I start shaking. Doug continues to hold me as I heave.
I remember the True Love Waits campaign of my teenage years. Our church’s youth group strongly supported sexual abstinence before marriage.
Sex is the most special gift you can give your partner, a speaker crooned on one of the free promotional VHS videos that our youth group received, along with a catalog to purchase TLW rings and attire. Don’t you want to give your partner the best?, the speaker asked.
As if sex with your spouse is always sacred.
As if sex with your spouse is never selfish or disconnected.
Bullshit, I say.
Sometimes, sex is Oh my God, I need you right now. Sometimes, sex is I love you so much. Sometimes, sex is well, it’s been a while so… Sometimes, it’s we better do it tonight if we want to conceive in this cycle. Sometimes, it’s we’re not going to be able to do it again for the next six days so…
So, bullshit, I say.
Sex isn’t the most intimate gift you can give your partner.
The most intimate gift you can give your partner is your vulnerability. Taking the risk to show the face that you hide from everyone else.
Sex in marriage is a given.
But vulnerability in marriage is not.
A second nurse comes to my bed. She rubs her hands together as she circles me, searching for opportunity. She goes for the crook of my left arm.
Burning, pain, more tears.
Then she goes for the soft underbelly of my left wrist. Hot, searing pain sends me shouting and swearing. My legs and feet brace against each other, rubbing up and down, trying to feel anything besides the searing pain in my wrist until she finally pulls the needle free.
“Is it always this difficult to find a vein?” the second nurse asks sensitively.
I shake my head. “It’s because I’m so dehydrated. I always drink a lot of water before a blood draw, but I had to fast for the anesthesia.”
The nurses talk quietly of calling in anesthesiology.
I wonder if we can just leave. Just pick up our things, get the Cytotec on the way home, and spend the night cramping and making bloody trips to the toilet. Even if my body doesn’t want to do that, at least it would be familiar with the process. At least maybe it would let that happen.
I continue to cry into my husband’s shoulder, where a dark circle of tears grows.
The last time I cried this much was when my father passed away.
On the night before the funeral, I tried to explain to Doug how I was feeling.
It’s like our family has been holding onto this rope for the past ten years and life is spinning us around. Everyone’s letting go, and flying out in different directions. And soon, no one will be holding on anymore. There will be nothing left of this thing that held us together for so long. And it makes me wonder what family really is when you all let go of the rope.
The anesthesiology nurse brings in warm compresses. My first nurse brings in more blankets. Your hands are so icy. Maybe the warmth will help.
More prodding, more rubbing, more tapping, more discussion.
Here? This one looks promising. Oh, what about this one? Wait… is that a tendon? Are you kidding me?
Through my tears, I start laughing. A delirious, dark laugh. I open my eyes to see both of the nurses eyeing my husband’s hands.
“He’s got some nice veins,” I say. “That’s why I married him.”
They chuckle with me.
“Too bad we can’t do him,” one of them says.
The fifth stick—in my right hand.
The sixth stick—underneath my left arm.
My arms are throbbing. My physical pain peaks. My emotional pain flatlines.
Then miracle of miracles—the seventh stick.
The vein that finally accepts the IV, just above my right wrist.
Ecstatic to have finally accessed a vein, the anesthesiology nurse immediately threads it, forgetting to draw the blood.
“Does that mean you’ll have to stick her again?” my husband asks.
My first nurse nods.
He uses his fingers to wipe the sides of my face.
“Let’s give her a break,” my nurse whispers.
The cool IV fluid snakes its way through my veins. The image starts a train of thought.
I think about the anthropology unit that my students were studying just before we left for Christmas break. We learned that in the Mayan world, snakes were symbols of transcendence, creatures that could cross easily between two worlds: the world of the living and the world of the dead.
I wonder how I can become like them.
I wonder why it has been so difficult for me to cross back into the land of the living.
At night, my mind replays and replays the silent, motionless figure, floating on the ultrasound screen. Those definitive words, No cardiac activity.
During the day, I feel the weight of simply living while carrying the dead with me. Everywhere I go.
I think about letting go. The prayers, the wishes, the ways that I have resumed my old life. Wine, coffee, sushi, deli meat.
Hoping the mental clarity would speed things along.
Hoping for blood.
I open my eyes for the first time in thirty minutes. My blanketed legs are covered in empty needle packages, gauze, and tape. My arms are bandaged here and there. My first nurse pulls a new needle from its package and lets it fall among the rest of the debris on my legs.
I don’t even care anymore. I just want this to be over. I give up.
I go slack in Doug’s arms.
But with the eight stick in the right hand, I tense and cry out, “Mother fuck!”
“Look, she can’t do this anymore,” Doug says. “I’m shocked she hasn’t passed out yet.”
Back to my left hand, the ninth stick. It slides in, no sting.
“Okay…” I mutter. I lean back against Doug’s shoulder. “Okay… This isn’t awful. I don’t like this one, but I can do this one.”
A silence in the room.
“It’s not coming out fast, is it?” I ask.
“No, but it’s fine. Just relax,” Doug says.
“Deep breaths, Sharon. Relax,” my nurse says.
A whole minute passes.
“Try making a fist if you can,” she encourages me.
I try, but closing my hand knocks my fingers against the needle. I imagine not having hands or arms. I imagine sliding out of this moment and slipping into the future.
Another minute passes.
I loosen my grip and focus on being empty.
Because that is what this is.
A complete emptying.
Letting it all go.
And hoping that there is something left at the end of it.
To move like a snake, you need to give up your arms, your ability to hold on to anything. That’s how snakes flow seamlessly from one world into the next. They don’t cling to anything.
At the same time, nothing can hold on to them. Snakes need to dodge and evade. They need to slip through fingers. They don’t linger in memory or balk at the future. They exist only in the present. They can move easily between both worlds because they don’t love. Nor can they be loved.
But I have loved. Even if my arms could not hold, I have loved.
This is the pain of miscarriage–to love without reward. There is no newborn cry. No tender face or fingers or toes. Perhaps not even the knowledge of knowing the gender of your child. The pain of miscarriage is to love without the possibility of a future. There is nothing but love and pain.
My journey back to the land of the living will not be seamless. I will not slide smoothly past all of these memories, emotions, doubts, fears, and uncertainties.
Because I have loved.
The challenge, then, is to learn how to move through the pain even though I still love.
“So this is the consent form to have the procedure of dilation and curettage,” my nurse holds a paper on a clipboard. I carefully lift my right IVed hand to sign it.
Dilation. From Latin, dilatare. “The process of becoming larger or wider.”
Curettage. “A surgical scraping or cleaning by a curette.”
Curette. From French, curer and from Latin, curare. “To cure.”
To enlarge and cure.
Staring at the overhead lights in the OR, my anesthesiology nurse clicks a vial of medication into my IV.
“You’re going to start to feel light now.” She rubs my forehead, my hair. Her eyes are bright, but sad. It makes me think she has been through this, too. “You’ve been through a lot, so just rest now. We’ll take good care of you.”
A final tear slips out of my right eye. She wipes it away.
What I think is, This isn’t working. I wonder when this stuff will finally kick in.
Loving is easy. Even natural.
It’s living with love that is hard.
The only way to avoid heartbreak is to choose not to love.
But if you choose to love, grief will take you down into the land of the dead. As you struggle with the grief, you will bleed. If you panic, your struggle will tear away pieces of you. If you panic too much, you will rip yourself to shreds, like an animal caught on barbed wire.
But if you can lift your head when the blood comes, you will see that the bleeding comes from hooks, buried deep in your flesh. Hooks to everyone who loves you. Hooks to your spouse. To your children. To your family. To your friends.
If you can lift your head while you are still bleeding, you can see who is still holding on to you. Then, you can reach up and take the hand that is reaching out for you.
You can move together.
You can climb out.
You will be scarred. You will be stretched. You will be larger, wider, and more flexible.
But the next time you’re caught in grief, you’ll remember to stop and see who is holding on to you.
And who you need to let go.
I know that voice.
“Hey, baby girl.”
His warm hand on my face.
“Hey, Sweets. It’s all over. You did great.”
What I remember is
… to remember every tear we shed in joy to cover every tear we’ll someday shed in pain.
What I think is
…We can get through this. I promised him I wouldn’t give up.
What I say is, “My wedding vows.”
“What? What Sweets?”
“My wedding vows,” I say louder. My eyes flip open. Light and shapes.
“What about them?” he leans closer.
“I meant them.”
He rubs my hand. “Sweets…”
“I meant them. I want you to know that.”
Death surrounds new life, but it largely goes unnoticed. It starts in a womb where the death, birth, and growth of cells happen every month. A tiny fertilized egg trusts its fate to this volatile environment. Sometimes, it works out. Sometimes, it doesn’t.
About one year ago, I wrote these words in one of the final chapters of my book, Becoming Mother.
I just recently lived to experience the pain of these words.
Truth be told, I had a miscarriage before I was pregnant with my daughter. But it happened immediately after I got a positive home pregnancy test. Just as quickly as the news came, it was taken away. It felt like a mistake. Oops! That wasn’t meant for you.
I was never able to really own that pregnancy.
But this miscarriage, this one that just happened, this one is all mine.
This pregnancy was different. Every pregnancy is different, they all say. But from the day of ovulation to the day this baby’s heart stopped, I felt that something was off. Although I’ve never been one to place much trust in intuition, my radar was on high alert this whole pregnancy.
On the day I ovulated, I felt like I had a war going on inside of me. My right ovary hurt, my right Fallopian tube ached, my uterus contracted and tugged in hot spasms. I had never felt anything quite like this, so my brain settled on the idea that I was miscarrying. Although… how could that be? I’m just now ovulating!
I came home from work, still in pain, still confused. By the next day, the pain was gone, but I was so bloated and swollen I had to wear loose fitting pants.
As timing would have it, my annual gynecological exam was the following week and my midwife told me that it had probably been a ruptured ovarian cyst, especially since the pain was now gone.
Okay, an ovarian cyst… Strike one. But maybe I can still get pregnant.
And I did.
After I got the positive pregnancy test, I calculated my expected due date: August 1, 2016.
Huh… That doesn’t sound right.
I re-entered the date of my last period. Same answer. Of course, it was the same answer, but it didn’t seem right. It didn’t feel right.
I gave the pregnancy test to my daughter and told her to give to my husband. I thought it would be cute. He was still in bed, still groggy. He rolled over, looked at it, and asked if there were two lines there. I said yes.
He seemed underwhelmed, so I asked him what was wrong.
“I’d just feel more comfortable about this if you hadn’t had so much pain when you were ovulating.”
Husband doubting the good news. Strike two.
At five weeks pregnant, I was reeling. I had lost my emotional footing. I was so irritable that I couldn’t stand myself. Absolutely everyone was pissing me off. A colleague belaboring a point. My husband leaving dishes in the sink. My daughter not wanting to get in her car seat. My students not doing the reading. Every time someone pissed me off, I had to talk myself through it. This is a stupid thing to be upset about. You’re only feeling this way because you’re pregnant. Calm down and don’t say something that you’ll regret later.
And then the foggy thinking. I was so much foggier than I remember being at the end of the third trimester with my daughter. One day, my brain switched over from knowing it was Tuesday to thinking it was Wednesday. I rushed to create a lesson plan for my Wednesday class in one hour when I had another day to do it. Only as I was about to walk to the class did I realize that it was really Tuesday.
At six weeks pregnant, the extreme fatigue started. No. Let’s be real. It was extreme exhaustion. Between 1:00 and 3:00 p.m. every day, I was utterly useless. I had to work, sure, but I was completely checked out mentally. If I could leave work early, I did. Once I made it into our house, I immediately crashed on the sofa. Not enough energy to get upstairs.
This baby was kicking my ass. And I still wasn’t telling anyone about it, save my mother.
Then at seven weeks pregnant, on the morning of Monday, December 14th, I was brushing my teeth and looking in the mirror. And I had a horrible thought.
I’m not pregnant anymore.
I wasn’t reeling.
I wasn’t foggy.
That day, I was tired, but not nearly as exhausted as I had been.
Maybe I’m not pregnant anymore.
What a morbid thought! What the hell is the matter with you! Think positive. Maybe this is just going to be an easy pregnancy.
That week, my digestion slowed to an absolute crawl. I started eating smaller meals more frequently, and I felt better. Then, the nausea started to kick in and I took comfort in it.
See? There. I told you.
At eight weeks and one day, I went in for the first ultrasound. For days, I had been prepping myself mentally for this.
I had never had an ultrasound where a doctor had given me bad news. They had always been exciting. I had always left with either good stats or pictures to show off.
Yet in my head, I went over the scenarios.
A baby in a Fallopian tube.
A dead baby.
A baby with no head.
A baby with no legs.
Two babies, both dead.
After each scenario, I would chide myself.
What the hell is the matter with you! What kind of mother are you to be thinking such morbid thoughts? You’re going to become a self-fulfilling prophecy if you’re not careful.
Imagining my child dead. Strike three.
In the days after I received the bad news that the baby had stopped growing at six weeks and six days (i.e. the day before I had my first thought that I was no longer pregnant), I felt the full gamut of emotions.
I wanted to know where I had been when this baby’s heart stopped beating on Sunday, December 13th.
Was I in church? Had I been reciting the liturgy? Help, save, comfort, and defend us, gracious Lord?
Was I singing “We Need a Little Christmas” to my daughter as we drove home from church?
Was I napping?
Was I doing a prenatal yoga video, my hand resting over my abdomen in shavasana pose?
I was so furious.
“How are you doing, baby girl?” my husband asked me on the day after we found out. The house was quiet. Our daughter in bed. Christmas Eve still a day away.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Pshhh… You’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“Just say it.”
“What am I thinking? I’m thinking, what a waste of time. What a waste of effort. We had this all planned out so that I’d have the longest maternity leave possible, given the holidays and the academic year. And now, it’s just all gone. All that coping with irritability and the fatigue and the nausea… All of that time… My birthday, Thanksgiving, our anniversary, and now Christmas… all of it spent emotionally invested in this thing that didn’t go anywhere. That’s what I’m thinking.”
But I held back.
I didn’t tell him that I was also thinking, Let’s just get this over with so I can move on. Let’s cut this thing out of me so I can replace this empty hole with something living. Something more worth my time. Let’s just get on with this so that I can stop being so damned depressed and start feeling happy again.
Doug leaned back in his chair, a frown on his face.
“It wasn’t a waste of time, Sweets. Don’t think that.”
I shook my head.
“It wasn’t a waste. We made something special. Yeah, it didn’t last very long, but it was something we made together. And I think that’s nice.”
His words cut me. And what I bled was the truth that had been too painful for me to admit.
I had loved this baby.
Yes, this six-week-six-day-old baby, which medical textbooks call a “fetus.”
I loved it.
Me. The pro-choice woman who had also been comfortable using the word “fetus” instead of “baby.”
I loved this baby.
All of my anger and frustration had been window dressing for the simple fact that I was sad to lose someone that I had loved.
And here I was, denying it. Because denial was easier than facing the truth. That I had lost someone that I had loved. That I could feel so strongly about this baby that I would never meet.
I would be the only person on this planet that would ever know this baby the way that I did. And here I was, calling it a waste of time. A waste of effort.
I was so ashamed.
I said my good-bye to this baby on Christmas Eve after a long, desperately needed workout. Sweating, lying on the floor in the back room of our house, I rested my hand over my abdomen and cried.
I don’t want you to think that I didn’t love you because you couldn’t live up to my expectations. Just because your heart stopped beating… it doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. You didn’t have to be perfect. You didn’t even need to be fully formed. I still loved you. It doesn’t help me to imagine that you might be better off dead if you had some chromosomal abnormality–because I know I would have loved you no matter what your problems were. I would have taken you in whatever form you came.
Because that’s love.
This miscarriage has brought gratitude into full view again. When we’re deep in pain, we’re suddenly able to look back and identify all those moments when we should have been feeling gratitude–but we chose to feel a thousand other emotions.
Like it or not, I’m re-learning the humility of waiting. Waiting to heal. Waiting to pick myself back up. Waiting to try again.
But perhaps the waiting will be good for the part of me that foolishly believed that I could just remove death and replace it with life, just like that. A switcheroo before I would have time to deal with the pain of this loss. In a Facebook world brimming with good news and happy times, loss has become even harder to deal with. “Happiness” becomes the new default setting, and everyone seems to be experiencing it. And so it’s easier these days for loss to feel abnormal.
But the truth is, the abnormal is often the normal that we just don’t talk about in polite company.
Perhaps I need to learn that again. Perhaps I need to remember my own words.
Motherhood does take away. But it also replaces. Sometimes our hands are empty and sometimes they are full. And accepting this truth helps me find contentment and joy.
About one year ago, I wrote these words.
But it was just recently that I was reminded of their power.
Here we have the fetus…measuring at 6 weeks… 6 weeks, 6 days actually.
No cardiac activity.
White outline, dark figure. Too dark.
Head, legs, arms.
Motionless, floating, silent.
You should be at 8 weeks, 1 day…Normally, we’d see some cardiac activity by now… And it’s measuring so small… I just really think this isn’t going to be a good outcome.
A warm tear. Another. Another.
Tissues. More tissues.
These things happen in about 16% of known cases.
Hand on my shoulder. Kiss on my forehead.
Take the time that you need, Sweets.
Pants, then shoes, then laces.
Make an appointment for next week.
Yes, Tuesday’s fine. Anytime. It’s fine. Thank you.
Only one exit out, so back through the waiting room.
Pregnant women, hands on their bellies, their fingers slowly scrolling on their phones.
Tears in the hallway.
Tears in the elevator.
Tears in the parking garage.
Tears in the car.
Hands on the steering wheel.
All the tissues.
Out of tissues.
Who do I need to tell? What do I say?
When did I lose it? What was I doing? Where was I?
When will the bleeding start? When will this be over?
I can’t do this again.
But when can we try again?
I knew things weren’t going to be the same this time… but this?
A blurry drive home.
My body, now a tomb.
My mother’s car in the driveway.
This is so hard.
My daughter’s hug. Her smile.
We eat dinner.
We visit a park lit with Christmas lights.
This is her Christmas now.
We walk the path with everyone else.
Christmas music plays.
It’s the most. Wonderful. Time. Of the year.
My daughter’s laugh. Her high-five to Minnie Mouse.
Her wide, bright eyes.
The drive home.
Mama, Row, Row Boat.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
A fire in the fireplace.
Dr. Pepper and bourbon.
Heavier and heavier.
The fire burns, my husband drifts off.
My hand on his head.
No more tears.
Waiting for pain.
Pain would complete me.
I am divided.
Partly grieving for what I’ve lost.
Partly grateful for what I still have.
My body, a tomb, but there will be no resurrection.
There will be no miracles, not even if I believe.
White outline, dark figure. Too dark.
It’s dark, dark everywhere.
The winter solstice has just passed.
The darkness slowly leaves. The light slowly returns.
I wait for it.