I miscarried on Father’s Day.
After 8 weeks of the best ride of my life, the highest high … then I plummeted to a new, scary and completely overwhelming depth.
This summer ranks right up with the worst summer I’ve had and I’ve had some sh*tty summers. Summer 2010, my mother-in-law suffered debilitating strokes. Summer 2011, my father-in-law unexpectedly passed away. Summer 2012, we became caretakers for my mother-in-law. Summer 2013, I was unemployed due to the government sequestration. Summer 2014, I lost my first pregnancy AND became unemployed again. This doubles as my pity party list and context setting. I’m emotionally and mentally wiped out. I’m crying, “Uncle!” to God, the universe, whoever will listen.
Because summer after summer, winter has reigned long and dark within. The parallels to Game of Thrones aren’t lost on me. As any psychology major or literary theorist will tell you, we find ourselves in the story. My favorite characters are dying, the ass holes are in charge and winter is coming. And just like real life, I have no idea when the next book will be released. The story continues to be written. (Let the fist shaking against heaven and Martin commence!)
While waiting, I do the only thing I can do. Every morning, I put on my glasses and feed the cat. I meet with friends, I ride my bike on errands, I fold the laundry. I go through the motions of living and after a few months, life has finally started to feel more real again instead of like the foggy Claritin commercial. I’ll string together a couple of good days. Even think about writing our story. Then I sit down to write and my throat tightens, the tears well up and my fingers tense. It’s as though no words will ever do justice to the beautiful, little life that I loved and lost. So I close the computer and think I’ll try again another day.
There’s more to the story. I know there’s more to write. This is just the start of telling the story, of honoring the memory and inviting others into the struggle that has been so hard fought.