Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Our Story

Part 11 Back to the real world.

The night of Diane's funeral was a difficult one. Craig had went back with the family to their house and I had went home. I couldn't handle anymore people. I was spent. I was exhausted.

Craig said he would be home in the evening sometime. As the minutes, and hours, ticked by I got more and more worried. I paced the floor. I held my cell phone in my hand at all time. I would be able to reach him on his phone, and he told me he would be leaving soon, but never did. I tried to get some sleep but I couldn't stand to be away from him. Every time I closed my eyes, I would imagine the worst. Any car that passed the house, I was sure it was a police officer coming to tell me some horrible news. I was just convinced he was never coming home. As the night wore on, I became increasingly more agitated and worried. Later on, I would learn, he had spent the night talking with his friend and, in true guy fashion, drowning their sorrows in beer.

I now know how important that time was. Jer and Craig were able to escape together and be with someone with a shared horrible loss. They were able to talk and laugh and talk. They probably had their first "deep" conversation in their 25 year friendship.

But to me, at the time, I just felt abandoned and lonely. I was angry and hurt. It was a hard thing to feel. We had just lost our son, this was small peanuts compared to that. But I was still angry at my husband for hurting my feelings, like I had been at other times in our relationship. I remember him asking me the next day if it was really that big of a deal. After everything we had been through, couldn't we just not argue? I told him just because our son died doesn't mean he escapes me getting angry with him.

It was just another thing we had to adjust to. We easily got through it, and like I stated, I do now understand what happened that night and I am glad he had the chance to spend that time with his friend. But, life does get in the way of grief. And just because you are grieving does not mean everyday annoyances aren't going to get on your nerves.

Craig returned to work a few days later and the life started to ease back into a routine. I had spoken to my work and decided to come back in early July. I had been planning to be transferred to a different location (close to home) after Curtis was born. I was excited to cut down my 120 mile a day round trip commute out. I was convinced they were going to make me return to my old location once I didn't have the baby as an "excuse" as why I needed to be close. I found out later, that wasn't the case and I was grateful. I did not want to return to the location where I spent so much of my time pregnant and spending time with the people who shared my pregnancy daily. I needed fresh new clients and a fresh new area.

So, I had 4 weeks. 4 weeks where Craig would leave everyday and I would stay home. Those days are a blur of nothing. I rarely left the house. I would force myself on one small errand each day. That may be something as simple as driving the 2 blocks to the post office. I mostly spent a lot of time online. Research stillbirth. Posting on a message board. Sitting on the couch and dreaming about being pregnant again.

Trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. What happened to my life? Had I _really_ been pregnant? Had I really given birth? If so, where was my proof?? Every other woman who spends 9 months pregnant gets her baby.

It felt like a gigantic game of pretend. For 9 months, everyone around me indulged in my little game and one day, they all stopped. Back to the real world. No more pretending.

It was something, and is something, I struggle with everyday.

2 comments:

Kristi said...

I can see how you start wondering if any of it really happened. Maybe at some point it felt better for it not to be real.

Cara said...

Without question this is the initial struggle...what is reality and why does it feel like fantasy? I, too, had my leave to fill with wonderings and confusion...six weeks of empty TIME.