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.