The highs and the lows

I came away from my support group last night on a high.  It’s the second meeting of this particular group and I was looking forward to it.  It’s a funny bond to share.  There are people in the group I really like and we are slowly forging friendships.  It is so comforting to talk about my baby easily- talk about the good things and the sad things.  No judgment.  No worries about whether mentioning her name will kill the conversation.  No secret burdens to bear.  I shared my excitement about some future projects I want to develop to help this new community I have found myself a part of.  I drive home grinning, thinking about how one of the familiar faces at the group looked at me and said, “It’s good to see you smiling.”  I usually cringe at comments that mention how good I look.  I interpret them as relief that I’m better; that I’m no longer sad about my daughter.  In this group of the babyloss, I know that they don’t think that.  They are not over their sons and daughters and never will be, just like me.  They know that I’m not better- I am just different.  I drive on, thinking about how much I like these people, wondering how to incorporate them more in my life.  They round it out.

And then I come home.  I see on my very carefully selective social media feed the hint that someone is in labor.  I am reminded once again how I have no baby.  The world goes on.  The newborns in my family now number two in one week.  It was due to come and at least it’s over.  I no longer have to wait on bated breath wondering how I will feel.  I am in it.  That gorgeous, freeing high I had felt just moments ago is lost.  I am angry.  Angry that I am alone in my sorrow.  Angry that I had finally felt some sense of peace and it was ripped away from me.  I am a puddle of tears heaped on the floor of my living room, the laundry needing to be folded pushed aside, the glass of wine on the coffee table forgotten.  I hate this!  I hate this!  I scream in my head, teeth gritted as the howls come out.  As I lie on my side, curled up in a ball, chest heaving, hands covering my face trying to hide the stream of tears, I think if only people could see me now.  THIS is how it feels to have buried your baby three months ago. THIS is how I am. 

The low continues on.  Sleep can often reset my emotions- a new day, a new outlook.  But as I sit at my breakfast table, looking out on my sun streaked lawn, facing a beautiful day, I find myself in tears.  Angry, forceful tears over how I spend my days reading online posts about babyloss and grief.  Sad, mean tears over how my bereavement group is the thing I look forward to most these days.  Lonely, hot tears over how buying a bouquet of flowers for my daughter’s grave is the only way I know how to mother her.  Today’s sunshine is lost on me because I am sad.  So very very sad.

I miss my daughter.

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