Still here

I think I’m over it until I see another friend announce her pregnancy on Facebook.

I think I’m over it until I see a picture of a friend whose pregnancy started just a few weeks after mine and the sight of her smiling face and rounded belly makes me go numb.

I think I’m over it as the world explodes in justified rage and demands for justice in light of the recent deaths of Michael Brown, Tamir Rice and Eric Garner.

I think I’m over it as I attempt to open to the agony of countless women and men whose black sons are slain in the United States every twenty eight minutes.

I even feel like I’m over it as I stand with the throngs of people of every color who have come to say enough. 

And then it arrives with an immediacy and force I cannot ignore.

It’s a different grief than the early days. I do not become immediately engulfed.  It is tangible, though muted.

When grief arrives, I feel the world tilt, and whatever brightness or contentment I may have just been feeling, slips away.  I grope for it, but those light, bright feelings are beyond my reach.

In an instant, I am on an raft floating far from the mainland wherein lies my family, friends and community.  I am alone. And because this is a pregnancy loss, and because I have not shared it widely, I feel invisible.

It’s like it never happened.

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2 thoughts on “Still here

  1. This post completely resonated with me. It’s the strange moments that trigger my grief that confound me. I think I’m over it, and then I’m not. Can I just say that I hate that this is a silent struggle? I just want to shout it from the rooftops for the sake of women’s grief everywhere. It’s not fair to do this alone, to handle this grief alone. This is when community is most needed. That is why I tell my story. Thank you for sharing yours.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for writing, Katy. I so appreciate you sharing your thoughts, as it really is a silent struggle — unless we tell our stories, connect with each other, remind each other that we are not alone… which is what you did by writing. I’m going to go check out your blog and know that I will feel less alone in reading your story. And though I don’t know your story yet, I know you have suffered a loss and my heart goes out to you and your loved ones. You get it, this grief stuff. It really is confounding.

      Like

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