Well, that was nice...

Two days of feeling almost okay. People even noticed. Color in my cheeks, energy. Appointment with my shrink. Meeting with my RE. Coffee with the grief counselor. Feeling strangely almost normal.

Check up at the OB to make sure the infection is gone. He is condescending. Yeast infection from the post-D&C antibiotics. I am probably about to ovulate. Empty waiting room, until I'm ready to leave -- some girl 18 or 20 with her probably six week old baby boy. With sweet huge blue eyes.

It begins to snow as I make my way home on narrow, winding roads. I walk in to the office to see the birth announcements posted on the glass wall of the entryway. The two baby girls born in the last two weeks to people in the department. I am numb.

Checking email, I want to cry, but keep it together -- repeatedly crying in front of my colleagues is not a good thing. At home, I goo.gle words I don't know from the placental pathology. I want to make sense of this, and in doing so, torture myself. Whether or not it's my fault, it's torture.

Why won't it stop. It's never going to stop. I don't know if I can bear it.

Starting again

In my twenties, I was living in Boston, finding myself and filling endless notebooks with... well, with agonizing over the details of my life. I fancied myself a writer, involved in workshops and groups - poetry and fictional snap shots crafted in coffee shops and from the pink couch of my writing teacher. It was so liberating, exhilarating, empowering... I started this blog, but can't seem to fill it. The idea of putting down words still feels so scary. Even my comfort is no comfort these days. Yet another loss.

Sometimes, I feel like I have no words at all, only tears. Or the words that come are so maudlin, so trite. They don't seem to be...enough.

Maybe I'll start with their names: Jacob and Joshua.