Sunday, August 7, 2011

Session one

He said: "This doesn't have to look like anything"

I said ok.

I cried. That's what I do in his office, ever reassured to see 2 boxes of tissues in his office upon my arrival.

I told him I am a bitter, angry woman.

I do my yoga practice (sometimes) and omit the closing prayer. I am inconsolable, uninspired, and have lost faith. I just keep getting up and doing what I have to do and going back to bed.

He said: "This doesn't have to look like anything"

He means my grief.

I am not reaching out to friends. I respond when they call on me. I'll even meet them for breakfast, but I don't have much to give. I don't initiate.

I am concerned about losing my friends. And I can't make myself do more to connect. I am remote. To them, to myself. 

I am tired, exhausted from working, and from holding it all together.

This doesn't have to look like anything.

My grief, he means.

There is no right way or wrong way to do this, he means.

There is just this moment. And the next. I wake up and do the laundry. I drink water. It's Sunday and I'm supposed to call my father. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't call. I feed Chicken, change her water. Start hand washing my cobalt top to wear at work this week. Roll out the yoga mat. Take off Dona Farhi's book off the shelf and do a backbending practice. Mr. August is at our friend's birthday brunch. She is not only having a birthday but also having a baby any minute now. Their place will be packed with happy people. I notice my mind getting busy with the problem of my absence at that party. And then I let it go. I'm not there. I'm here. In this moment. This doesn't have to look like anything. Yoga ends in savasana. I go down to change the laundry. I make coffee. I eat brunch.

In the next moment, I am lost. What comes next on a Sunday? On this Sunday? There is cleaning, walking, making supper, talking on the phone, reading The Globe and Mail. What order do they go in?  

Oh yes, I remember now. This doesn't have to look like anything. I can just make it up, jerry-rig it together with chicken wire, and call it a day, call it a grieving period. I can just do my best. My best, he says, will be good enough.

25 comments:

  1. Hey Augusta...thinking of you tonnes. Its so tough...pg loss is horrible horrible. But like you said...you are doing your best. I have every faith your spirit - albeit in a different form - will find you again. Hugs.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Beautiful post. Hoping it helps to have it out there. Take care of yourself :)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Thinking of you. And you (and he) are so right...it doesn't have to lok like anything. It just IS. Please take care of yourself as well as you can.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Your best is good enough! I loved this post! It reflected so much, feelings that I've had. I'm scared about being a burden on my friends always complaining and sometimes not being ready to be happy for their baby showers. I'm thinking of you and hoping that this week is at least a little bit better than last week.

    ReplyDelete
  5. You are doing what is best for you right now. I avoided friends for years, and they are still here supporting me and yours hopefully will too. Grief is so personal. There is no timeline for how it feels or how long it takes to pass, but it WILL get easier.

    The grief associated with a DE pg is extremely difficult, because there is the added element of this should have worked, I failed again. I know it well, but you did nothing wrong.

    Keep doing what you need to to survive. People will understand. It will get better.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Hugs. Thanks for this one. I needed to hear it.

    ReplyDelete
  7. I will always be here for you -- you can count on that. It sounds as if your first therapy session had takeaway that you can work with a bit, and I am so glad. All of us who love you agree -- this doesn't have to look like anything. Just live, and we will hold you in our hearts.

    I love you so much ... XOXOXO, H.

    ReplyDelete
  8. No one is going anywhere. It is hard to watch how others respond when you skim along the bottom. I am sorry it is so long. Even years later, it only takes a few wrong words to send you right back. Take your time and heal as best you can for now. It all comes and goes.

    ReplyDelete
  9. It's so true. No one will leave, I promise you. You just need to get through the day. Even if the day is just washing the dishes and not showering. Breathing is hard enough some days. :( Thinking of you...

    ReplyDelete
  10. I don't know what to say, but I want you to know how much I love you. You are such a blessing to so many people. I wish I could take the hurt away.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Wow, I love your writing, this was really powerful.

    ReplyDelete
  12. I love you so much. You're not losing me. I need to reach out to you more. Nothing needed in return. I wish you were feeling less pain, but I know that it's the feeling it that helps it to diminish. And it does diminish. Holding you close.

    ReplyDelete
  13. I know this place. It doesn't look like much, does it? I'm so glad your therapist was able to give you something to grab onto, but I'm so, so sorry that you're there. "I just keep getting up and doing what I have to do and going back to bed." There is so much packed into that sentence, and I just want to reach over across all the miles and hug you. I'm glad you posted -- I know how hard it can be to put anything out there when you're in the middle of it.

    ReplyDelete
  14. You won't lose any of us. We adore you and always will. We are holding you, carrying you, surrounded by love and prayers in our hearts. Just be. That's all you need to do right now. Just be. We are here, loving you with every breath and wishing your sorrow away. Warm, comforting hugs and healing are beaming toward you, dear friend. -A

    ReplyDelete
  15. Your description evokes the bleakness of this place so perfectly. That listlessness, mental confusion, exhaustion of spirit...

    The people who expect to see you face to face may be uncertain how to help or how to act, and they may not understand the depths of this sorrow, but I suspect that the kind of people you attract are the kind of people who will still be there, as eager for your company as ever, even if you don't speak to them for years. (And many of them are saying so!) I'm just so sorry. And I hope Mr. August is managing, too.

    ReplyDelete
  16. Hey- wish I could give you comfort in a hug/coffee date/chat/whatever you need. You are not alone. Thanks for being so open and honest in this post. I look forward to following your journey (just found you through Kat's blog). It WILL get better. It will.

    ReplyDelete
  17. I'm so sorry you find yourself in such a difficult place emotionally. I remember being in a similar place after losing Lily, feeling so tired of it all, and so bitter about how unfair and uncertain everything around us was. Your therapist is right, do the best you can. I wish so much that I could take away your pain and promise you that things will get better.
    Feel what you need to, find comfort where you are able and know that there are people many miles away praying for you and sending love, light, and most of all hope that there are better days ahead.

    ReplyDelete
  18. I am so very sorry Augusta. My heart breaks for you. I had a really hard time being open to my friends for a long time after the first miscarriage. Some of those relationships are still not the same. But it does get better. It really does. I didn't believe it when I was in that place, but it did for me. There are still moments where I feel empty and want nothing to do with anyone, but they are fewer and farther between.

    You are in my thoughts. You were such a support for me through everything. Please know I am here and would love to support you in any way I can. Big hugs my friend.

    ReplyDelete
  19. I'm so sorry for all the pain you are going through. We are all here for you, and I know that you have many good friends IRL who will be there for you too, no matter what. Hugs.

    ReplyDelete
  20. As others have said, thems that love you will stick around. I wonder if your therapist can recommend a good book on grief? Just a thought. Many hugs to you.

    ReplyDelete
  21. i have been thinking about you a lot. I am so sorry you are in such pain. Keep just taking one step at a time and don't expect too much out of yourself. Thinking of you

    ReplyDelete
  22. Oh Augusta, your writing is so real. It gives me goosebumps. I get it. Hearing you ask "what comes next on Sunday" just made my heart sink for you, and at the same time I am so grateful you wrote it. I get it. x

    ReplyDelete
  23. i wish there was something i could do to help you. even just a little bit. i can feel your pain through this post as if its my own. i wish things were very different. i wish i could help you :( thinking of you often. xo

    ReplyDelete
  24. The appt with my therapist after my last loss was simply me crying. I cried for an hour because there was nothing to say. I cried and she hugged me on the couch. There is nothing to say; just grief to wallow through. I wish all of us here could fly over to Pleasantville and help you negotiate each day - to walk the road with you in person.

    ReplyDelete