It’s been one week since the bleeding, the call to the doctor, the over-the-phone reassurances and the “if you want to come in I can check, but I’m sure everything’s okay.” It’s been one week since the picture on the screen, quiet and unmoving– one week since “your baby is gone.”
It’s been one week since the holding it in till we got home, the phone calls to loved ones, the numbness and the shock and the beginning of the grieving.
I have a blue bruise, about the size of a nickle, on my hand, and a little red scab from the IV.
I drink coffee that tasted wrong for six weeks. It tastes good now.
I stay up too late in hopes that when I do lie down, my mind will quiet and I will sleep.
I make dinner for the kids, and I change diapers, and I do flashcards with the boys.
I peruse blogs, and update my facebook, and read On the Banks of Plum Creek aloud while the boys do silent contortions on the couch and Squeezy empties out the container of baby wipes and pretends to blow her nose on each one.
I procrastinate laundry and I take a hot shower and I correct spelling words and I pick up my daughter and tickle her and laugh with her infectious hilarity.
I make plans. And then I remember I am not planning around a summer baby anymore. I do not know what to do with that information.
I wonder at myself, at the tears that have been so slow to fall. When the nurse pierced my flesh to put that needle in my hand on Tuesday, it broke the dam and the crying started. I collected myself a little, and then found myself on a table in the operating room, surrounded by strangers, with drugs flowing down into my hand and tears flowing again. The nurse was kind. She said she would take good care of me.
I feel like I haven’t cried enough. I feel numb and still in shock, now, a week after no heartbeat.
I don’t know what it means.
Maybe tomorrow everything will crash in. Maybe it won’t.
I feel guilty for enjoying coffee, for appreciating aleve after three months of only tylenol, for not lying in my bed and weeping like I did before.
In the three years since we lost Elijah, I have told many people there is no wrong way to grieve. And now, I find myself not sure if I believe my own advice. I am okay. It feels wrong.
Stinky watches the shuttle lift off for the final time, and Bubs goes to his piano lesson, and Squeezy fusses at the bandaid on her finger. We eat popcorn and the boys watch Wall-E. I make scrapbook pages in Photoshop.
Life goes on.
I’m okay. But I guess I’m not.
I don’t know what I am.