Saturday, November 21, 2015

I Hate Thursdays

"Hey Mrs. Suders, why haven't you finished grading our projects yet?"

I spent all of my planning time sitting at my desk yesterday crying because even though it's been three months since my miscarriage, I am still sucker punched with grief at the most inopportune times. All I can think about when you guys aren't in the room with me is how I should be leaving school early to go to a doctor's appointment or to visit Lila's grave. The flowers are probably dead and rotting... 

"I don't know. Sorry. I'll get them done, guys..."

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Thursdays used to be my favorite days. This past summer, I eagerly awaited Thursdays  because they meant another week of pregnancy had passed successfully! I couldn't wait to see what new things the baby growing inside of me could do- bend elbows, swim around, have a heartbeat. I couldn't wait to watch the little "What to Expect" videos about our baby's development, head shaking with awe and heart full to the brim, hand absently tracing my belly button (since I'd already taken out my navel ring in anticipation of my stomach ballooning to watermelon size).

I guess you can guess that I hate most Thursdays now. This past one would've been 24 weeks.


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Sometimes I don't cry at all.
Sometimes I cry snot and shower water and black mascara.
All the time, no matter what, I miss the baby I never met.

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My AP students recently had to write an essay about fear. Some of their fears were typical: public speaking, death, failure, the dark, snakes. Some were unique: big dogs, getting lost, falling into the oven and getting burned.

My absolute biggest fear right now is never being able to get pregnant again. My next biggest fear is getting pregnant but losing another baby. My final fear is walking too close to the road and falling into the street and getting my head run over by a car. I'm not sure which is most likely to happen.

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This blog entry reflects me, who I am and what I'm feeling (it's cool how writing can do that).  My thoughts are kernels in an air popper, bouncing around noisily,  some exploding into thoughts that land on this page (screen...blog...whatever). My thoughts are red Starbucks cups, blank and politically incorrect (to some). My thoughts are mostly inside of me, and I guess I hope that getting them out will help me, help you, help the world, or something.

My thoughts let me know grieving is different for everyone. And that's ok. It's not always linear. It's not neat. It's not checkboxes and lists. It's messy, it's ugly, it's wadded tissues and screaming into a pillow and brushing off stupid advice and hoping you don't forget why you're so sad in the first place and feeling guilty for the days when you feel ok but also really wanting to feel ok because it would mean everything was the way it should be in the world.