The Familiar Abyss

Here it comes again--January. I'm no longer sure of how to approach this month that brings renewed hope and vitality to those around me. I'm certainly not out to bring everyone else down, but I can't shake the feeling of dread that has happened every January for the past three years. I don't expect everyone else to understand--far from it--I am VERY clear on the fact that she was my baby, that I was the one carrying her, that I alone felt her kicks and knew her rhythms so intimately. The first anniversary of her death was horrific--I cried and cried, each minute of the day from the 19th (the day I went to the hospital) to the 22nd (the day we lost her), as I relived what I had gone through. "At this time last year I was having an ultrasound," I would think. "At this time last year I was getting the news..." "At this time last year I was holding on to a thread of hope..." and so on. It was miserable. And, of course, to add insult to injury, over her first anniversary I was not pregnant. I was, in fact, 7 weeks out from a miscarriage. Argh.

Last year, the second anniversary of her death, I did not expect it to be as bad as the first. I figured the first was clearly the worst and it could only get better, right? Wrong. Although I don't remember the details, I remember being so emotional and sad that on the night of the 19th I picked a fight with my husband (isn't that the best tactic for getting out emotional energy???) and by the time I went to bed, I was sobbing. He came in quietly, wrapped his arms around me and said, "Yes, I know what day it is. I miss her too." Argh.

So here we are again--on the cusp of this abyss that I can't seem to cross without losing my mind. I'm feeling it bubbling up inside me and I can't find a way to make it, if not go away, at least reduce its impact on my life. To make matters worse, my husband will be gone in the days leading up to her birthday, so not only do I have to not lose my mind, I have to be a patient and loving single mom of three at the same time. It won't be easy, but we'll do it one day at a time. Then Chris will return, we'll have cake and ice cream mixed with the tears we will both shed for the baby girl we never got to keep. And on the morning of the 23rd, I'm guessing, the sun will rise again. Sometimes the whole day, the whole experience, even the baby girl herself, all seem like a hoax. Did it all really happen? To me? Really? Argh.