Two Steps Backward

So it seems I'm down the Rabbit Hole again. Waking in the middle of the night to imagine the hidden mold in the walls is preventing me from getting pregnant again. Running over the details of the cross country trip, reliving the emotional fit I pitched the night before we found my cervix was open, testing out different theories of how I caused the loss of our sons. And sealing the deal with a nice dose of "since I lost us those viable lives, now we will be granted no others".

And none of it is helped by the hormonal, emotional, up and down of trying and failing, trying and failing, month after month.

The Rabbit Hole sucks.

Alice had a Tea Party; seems I'm having a bit of a Pity Party today.

Let's see if I can't find a ladder and climb the hell out of here:

This past week, we went back to HAND, to honor our boys by trying to lend a hand to those at the beginning of the journey. At the meeting, we encountered an old friend, a woman who started her journey with loss at the same time we did, and two new couples, one a month into the journey and another a mere week past their loss. We listened to them, and realized how far we have traveled. Their grief was so raw, so consuming, so total. I remember feeling that way. I remember going into the Trader Joe's wanting to shout, "How can you all shop?! My children have died!!!" Now I shop there weekly and merely scowl at the shocking number of pregnant women roaming the aisle. Perhaps there is something to that and I should start buying all Trader Joe's brand products?

We listened to them rage against the medical system, against inadequate care, against incomplete knowledge and lack of warning that something like this might happen. I remember feeling that way, remember nights spent screaming in my head at all the doctors in my world, not just the ones involved in my pregnancy. They haven't gotten to blaming themselves: that comes later, lasts longer, dies harder.

We watched them cling to each other, holding hands, looking like they wanted to climb into each other, and I thought: I miss that part. The incredible intimacy and tenderness of those early days. And then I looked at my sweet husband, slipped my hand into his and felt him hold on and not let go. Still there, just subtler.

We listened to them talk about feeling guilty for enjoying anything, guilt for laughing: I thought of how much laughter and joy we have experienced this year, despite our losses. We listened to them talk of fearing everything: our fear has quieted down to just one thing.

We counselled them that they would feel terrible like this for some time to come, but not for always and not so acutely. We told them that they would be changed people, there was no getting around that, but that many of the changes would evolve into good things: more empathy for the troubles of others, less concern with the little things, a deeper sense of priority and perspective, an appreciation for individual moments, a respect for the fragility of life and of happiness. We applauded them for being there, for expressing their feelings and their grief, for approaching this head-on. And we let them know that, a year later, things really would feel much much better.

One step forward.