Day 17 of Write Your Grief prompted me to think about where grief exists. I get the impression at times that people want me to be better, happier, smile more, and so on. This piece, while brief, helps to illuminate just how present Callan's death and absence is in my life. My discomfort might be uncomfortable for you to witness, but just try, try to imagine this life.
Grief is everywhere.
There’s no alarm to wake me in an attempt to ward off the inevitable. Grief.
From the moment I wake,
I feel your bunny pressed against my chest.
I look down at my now lumpy and scarred belly.
I sit on the toilet where my water broke.
I dress my body in too tight clothing because the maternity pieces are packed.
I don’t go to work.
I listen to podcasts and read books about loss.
I work in a garden Papa and I created for you.
I step over the stroller in the exercise room.
I stay away from the would be nursery by closing the door.
I cuddle the puppy we got when we found out we were having a baby.
I look at Papa’s strawberry blonde hair and think of yours.
I don’t return the phone call to the furniture shop where our glider sits.
I have visitors and see just a few friends.
I get acupuncture, abdominal massage, and craniosacral therapy.
I see my psychotherapist.
I rush through the grocery store wearing a hat and sunglasses.
I avoid pregnant friends and new mamas.
I order one book a week to add to your library.
I view my calendar, count the weeks it’s been since you were born, note the benchmarks we miss, and dread the upcoming events that should be.
I rub oils on my squishy belly.
As the day ends, I lay in bed, holding Papa close.
We share something we’re grateful for from the day.
I write to you in the journal on my bed stand.
I turn the light off, holding your bunny to my chest.
I survived. Grief.