Odds and Ends in the Galaxy of Grief

Grief washes over me.

It is not the same grief, not like it was almost four years ago. It is not the same at all, but it is still grief.

In its barest form, can grief be anymore than a wish for what once was? A desperate and primordial wish to return to what was? A return to a place that is safe and comfortable. Tragedy, perhaps, forces us to inhabit a skin we do not think of as our own.

We find ourselves looking at the new us, pink and raw, fragile and still broken, and we are perplexed. Angered. Bewildered. We scratch at the new skin, convinced the old is still somewhere underneath. Time goes by and we at least become more accustomed to it. No more do I catch sight of myself in the mirror and wonder who that woman is, with the frazzled hair, nails bitten down into the quick. She does not smell of the un-showered, dressed in dingy browns and greys.

And then, suddenly, I catch sight of myself, my circumstances, my life in a new light. The suddenness of it is mystifying.

I cleaned out the bathroom cabinet last week, prior to beginning my big renovation.

A lifetime's full of  the accoutrements of pregnancy attempts. The ovulation predictor kits. Empty bottles of fertility drugs. Pregnancy tests. Sperm safe lubricant. The pads I use when I miscarry.

Each of them an entire constellation of feelings and emotions. Galaxies of hope and despair, dragging me right back in.

I protest. I protest mightily, I am not that person. I am not that woman. I am not the beleaguered mother of dead children. I try to dig in my heels, but what is mere woman against the physics of galaxies.

I sit on the floor of the bathroom, agreeing to be in that space again. I sit and think about the first tube of pre-seed, what I thought was the answer to all of our fertility woes. I look at the dosage of the drugs and try to track them back to another appointment and another protocol - was this year 2? Year 3? 

I think of the futility of OPK's, displayed by the variety of manufacturers represented. I think of that nurse, the one who smirked when I quietly spoke up. "Para 4, gravida 1. It's just that he died thirty minutes after he was born. My son. His name was Gabriel."

She didn't get it either.

She, like so many, looked at the skin stretched over me, wrinkled and scarred, and she turned her head.

I turn my head too.

I walked away from all of this, I walk away from all of this. I sigh and stand up, sweeping it all into a black garbage bag. All of it. Great handfuls of my hopes and dreams, armfuls of despair and sadness. All of it, into one black garbage bag.

I haul it out of the house with leftover bits of tile and paint chips and packaging from the new bathroom mirror.

I am not her.

Standing on the back deck, my sides heaving from the pull of that galaxy.

This is grief.

This is what catches you, suddenly, as you mind your own business.

This, the reminder, that skin you wear now, it was not always so.

Does this definition of grief seem to ring true for you? Have you been surprised by how grief can catch you when you were least expecting it? How far are you from your loss and are you better equipped to handle these surprises? What have you learned to cope with them? Are you getting comfortable in your new skin?

Comments

[Dana]

Wow. Amazing, amazing post. I could relate to all of it. Mrs. Spit, as soon as I saw Gabriel's name I knew it was you who wrote this.

I do get surprised sometimes by the grief. I think I'm doing OK, then a flashback comes and/or the tears suddenly come. Not always with the same vengeance that they used to, but sometimes it is that bad.

I am 15.5 months out from losing Jacob. I have lost 3 more pregnancies and 4 babies since he was born, the last being 3 weeks ago. I do feel better equipped to deal with it when it comes. Sometimes I just cry, other times I let a few tears fall, taking some deep breaths and move forward. I didn't have that kind of control over it in the early days.

Lately I have been thinking about the person I was before and she seems like a stranger. Even though other people around me don't notice anything when I'm not acting sad, that girl is gone. I have no idea how I would ever get her back and I don't really want to.

[Monique]

So powerful. You are a very talented writer, Mrs. Spit and have endured more than one should. I'm so very sorry.

I find I'm not so much surprised by my grief. There is a beautiful poem by that expresses how I feel - just that death kind of took over my life in some way and I guess I'm used to it by now, 3 years later. I don't want to give the impression that grief and mourning is all I am but it's always just there, beneath the surface, and never far from my mind.

Here is the poem:

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20585

[angie]

Breathtaking post, Mrs. Spit. And Monique, absolutely, that is exactly it. That is the poem I always think when I sit down to write about anything but end up writing about her and Grief. I think grief catches me up sometimes, still. I am surprised at how quickly a nasty word about grief or my Lucia can kick the shit out of me for weeks. Still. I should be stronger now, no? And yet, I am still raw in that one spot. But I also recognize me again. And I like that. The before me and the after me are one. xo

[Francisca]

Beautiful post. Thanks for sharing your thoughts and feelings. I am almost 3 years post loss and feel exactly like you: I am not her. I haven't been able to have another child either and see my chances of ever having a living one vanishing by the day. That was NOT the life I dreamed of. Right now I feel sad most of the time. I mix up the sadness from the loss with sadness from the infertility and some days I wonder what makes me sadder. I know it doesn't really matter, but I am so consumed with grief that I find myself having these nonsense thoughts. Even when I am not thinking about dead or live babies, I feel gravity pulling me down. Not to talk about how easily I get aggravated. I really don't like who I am now.

Recently I lost my first friend due to loss/pregnancy related issues. I am devastated, but it made me realize I can't go on like that. I have to change strategy. I am trying to start accepting who I am now and stop wanting to be who I was. I am a sad person right now and this is it. I have to make peace with this fact. I think anxiety over being sad forever plays a huge part in my grief. I should have learned with my own life that things may dramatically change, for bad or for good and start focusing in the moment. These are the things I have been thinking lately.

[tash]

I could have written this. In fact, the other day, when I espied an old mostly gone box of progesterone supplements tucked in behind the last toilet paper roll I was grasping for, I could have written this. Or just yesterday, when I had to drive by the old OB's office, and Maddy's delivery hospital, and there was that wild push/pull -- should I stop? Should I peek in and say hi? Should I turn my head and drive straight by and pretend it's not there?

I look so different. I even chopped off my hair this summer to complete the different-ness, I look so remarkably different than I did 4 years ago. I feel different, too. And yet -- I still get those catches, those moments, where a sick wave washes over and I think: yes, I still miss her. I'm never prepared, and yet I think I'm used to it now, so I let the wave wash over knowing I'll pop up at the end and still need to make dinner tonight. I'm ok going underwater for a little bit, I guess because I learned how to hold my breath.

What a remarkable post.

[Catherine W]

This is an absolutely beautiful post Mrs. Spit. It feels very much like that to me, like the pull of a galaxy. Three years later, I am slightly better at resisting that pull but, like you, I am only a mere woman. I can't put up much for a fight against galaxies. But they chew me up and spit me out a little quicker these days. I'm gone for minutes, not weeks, at a time.

Sometimes when I see my reflection in the mirror, I turn my head too. Because it's uncomfortable here. Because it's unsafe here. I'm still casting about, trying to find a way to live as this person, with her new, frail, pink skin.

And that nurse. I'd like to have a few words with her.

[Heather]

I love everything you write Mrs. Spit!

I'm catching up, I'm dragging my feet and I'm still oscillationg between ok with it all (as much as one can be) and the raw emotion. I realized today that I am knocking on the door of a thousand days. A THOUSAND DAYS!! 2 years and almost 9 months later and two dead babies under my belt. Sometimes I get glimpses of the old me. And I think I'm getting comfortable in my new skin, though I don't like this new me much at all. In fact today I realized that I stopped wearing make up after Logan died, I wasn't really sure when that happened. But mostly now I feel comfortable in the shadow of my grief. I was wary back in May when I had an ectopic pregnacy and then never really seemed to mourn it. But these days I feel like perhaps its just that I've gotten really good at disconnecting from these horrors. Like if I stay disconnected, then nothing can really sneak up and suprise me. But still...there are days. I cleaned out all of the baby stuff I was hoarding and boxed it up for a garage sale, no tears. Later that day I caught my new grill on fire and bawled for hours! So as diconnected as I like to pretend I am...I still have my moments.