I used to hate cats. It was the easiest marital decision we ever made– we’ll never have a cat. The smell, the claws, the hassle. We’re not cat people, we agreed on time and time again. That was before I watched my child be weaned off a ventilator. Huddled in the corner of the room, surrounded by doctors and machines,
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There is a road that leads to my childhood hometown that slices a path through fields of mint. I used to yell at whoever was driving to roll their windows down, even in the heat of summer, when we’d get to that specific spot where I knew the air would be filled with the sweetest fragrance imaginable. It wasn’t the
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I woke up this morning to a 6-month-old baby. Every few weeks I still remind my husband that this child has lived longer in my womb than he has out in the world. I need someone else to feel the gravity of that statement. I was pregnant forever, I often groan. There are so many complicated factors when it comes
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When we checked into the hospital after finding out we lost a baby last November one of the first questions they asked us was if we had chosen a name. We hadn’t. We only had four months to ruminate on it. We thought we had so much more time. That question quickly preceded what we wanted to do with her
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I have the ability to choose the worst checkout line every time I shop, regardless of the store. For years I thought it was just my absentminded nature. I must not notice which line is the longest. I tried to make the best of it, laugh and change my ways. I was vigilant about what line I chose every time
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I wake at night, or sometimes early morning, in the hours when everyone else is sleeping. When everyone else should be sleeping. The times when if we had a clock I would be able to hear the articulation of its ticking. It could be my time to cry, to reflect, to remember the fragments my body begs me to forget.
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“Have you noticed that people aren’t sending us holiday cards?” I quizzed my husband, just two days before Christmas. “We’ve gotten several.” He held up a pile of the carnage, barely looked through but evidence of their existence was found in shades of crimson and green. We had gotten some. I knew this. I glanced over them when they arrived and
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Sixteen days have passed since she was born. Twenty one since we learned that she was no longer alive. Today is the first time that I opened up the mailbox to see only bills peering back at me. No cards. No gifts. The gas bill is late. My oldest told me that she misses her. I believe she means it
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If grief is a checklist then I am winning. Counseling. Support group. Making myself leave the house at least once a day. If grief is a sprint then I am losing. The tears haven’t slowed. The pain hasn’t subsided. I feel further behind one week later, or is it two? An eternity, it seems. If grief is a research paper
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They call it the silent sorrow. The unspoken grief that parents go through with pregnancy loss and stillbirth. Silent because nobody speaks it? Or silent because nobody wants to hear it? What should we say, really, to make ourselves louder and somehow more defined? Cry louder? Yell harder? Scream at strangers in parking lots? What should I say when the
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Chop Wood, Carry Water 