Friday, May 2, 2008

No title

I couldn't think of a good title for this post. There are just no good words.

It's four months this weekend since I delivered the boys. By the end of today, A's pregnancy will be over. Another Friday loss. She'll remember the 2nd of the month, instead of the 3rd and 4th. On Sunday, May 4, it is 7 years since my mother died.


I didn't want to share this with her. All my lamenting about how we had gotten so close, and how I feared it wouldn't last. How we had nothing to bond over now. This is not what I wanted. I don't want her to understand this.

It's been odd over the last couple of years, getting to know her. Finding out how similar we are in so many ways. But also how different. She's like my mom, a lot. She has the same hands. And she has the same brave face. The rational, practical approach: be busy taking care of people. As a kid, I always thought A was so strong. She almost never cried, and I always cried. It scared me when she openly cried, maybe because of the intensity of it. If my sister was crying, you knew it was big.

In recent years, and because we live so far away, it's rare for me to see her show such emotion. At my mother's death and funeral, her stone unveiling, my grandfather's death. And after one of the residents told us about the risks to my baby, being born too soon, with not enough fluid around him. The doctor left the room and -- shockingly -- we both burst into tears from across the room. If I had any denial left at that point, it was gone.

And she was there for me, for two weeks. Before and after the birth/death. She made me laugh in the hospital when everyone else was anxious and stone-faced. When I was getting upset. And I love her for that.

While I was recovering from the delivery at home, we talked about stupid things people say when they're trying to comfort the bereaved (or when talking to an infertile). We decided that most people are uncomfortable so they say stupid things. They feel like they need to fill the quiet space. They are trying to make themselves feel better, less uncomfortable.


I can see myself sitting in my car, after my class on Wednesday night, talking with her.

Me: A, I'm just so sorry. I wish there was something else I could say.
A: That's all you can say. There's nothing else to say. You know.

It was almost the same conversation, but with reversed roles, four months ago. I didn't want to share this with her.


luna said...

I'm so so sorry this is happening, that you now share this painfully awful thing with her. I'd like to be able to say how glad I am that she has you right now, just as she was there when you needed her, if not physically then emotionally. but it's all just too sad. and I'm so sorry this tragic end coincides with the anniversary of your mother's death.

you and your sister are right about the stupid things people say and why. I think having experienced your mother's illness and death you unfortunately learn so much about grieving the hard way. I wish on top of that sadness now you didn't have to share this experience too.

Julia said...

This is just overwhelmingly sad. I am so sorry, for both of you. And for your father-- this has to be a tough time for him too.
Damn, just damn.

Sue said...

Luna and Julia, thank you for your comments. I'm hoping that somehow I can be there for her. I sent her a little gift basket of sweets/treats, hoping that will ease things a little.

Julia, my dad has a *ton* of stuff now on top of this: his father also died on May 4, his (deceased) mother's (my granny's) birthday was April 27 and his sister's (my aunt's) 80th birthday was a couple of days April 30 (yeah, totally forgot to call her). When it rains, apparently, it fucking pours.

Just call me Little Miss Sunshine. With parentheses.

G$ said...

This makes me so, so sad. Your family must have serious PTSD when coming up on this time of year.

Big, big, rare G hugs to you and your sister. I hate that you have share this with her too.


c. said...

And I am so very sorry you do share this now. I am so sorry her dream has ended in the very same way yours did only four months ago. It is awful and unfair and just so fucked up. Really. That's what it is.

Tash said...

I'm with Luna on the bittersweet sentiment that I'm glad your sister has you as a paver ahead of her to help her. And yet with C. that this is really fucked up. I really like to create this myopic view (within my bizarro world) that lightning doesn't strike twice -- to individuals, or families. But of course it does. And when it does, it's like the dagger to the worldview. so extraordinarily unfair. I'm thinking of you all.

CLC said...

I feel sick reading this. Sick that she has to go thru this and know this pain. Like C said it's fucked up. It doesn't seem possible, fair, and every other word there is. You and now she have suffered too many losses. Please give her my condolences. Thinking of you all.

Newt said...

Oh, it's just too much. Your whole family should have a forcefield around yourselves after all this, guaranteeing that you've paid your grief dues and are exempt from all future tragedy. Damn, someone should invent one of those.

I'm so so sorry. Your whole family is still constantly in my thoughts.

Carrie said...

Oh no. No. No. No.
I am just catching up and I am beyond sorry. How much can one person take?
I wish there was something I could say too.
I hope you can find the strength to support your sister. Look after yourself too xx