Mornings

For some reason, right now the grief is worst in the mornings. I'm still feeling cramping from the D&C operation, so I've never awakened and forgotten I wasn't pregnant anymore, or anything, but every time I open my eyes, it hits straight on, like a pressure against my whole body. I feel like I age a decade in that single moment. I creak when I manage to leverage myself out of bed. The image of his little face at that last ultrasound flickers in my mind. My heart hurts worse than the physical recovery ever could, and the tears start again.

I haven't been alone for more than an hour since the doctors left the exam room on Thursday. I don't want to be. If I'm alone for too long, all that happens is the crying. I don't think it's a good idea for me to attempt it for a good long while. That makes work a bit difficult, though. I work from home as an editor. I'm used to being able to turn on a bit of music, spread pages out on the coffee table, and get down to business. Now I can't. Just staring at the pile of unread pages (sorry, Professor, your manuscript may return a bit late because of an unforseen loss in the family...) makes me start to despair. When I pick up the pages, none of the words make sense. It's all a jumble of letters and numbers. And why should it mean anything to me? My baby is dead. Academics, tables, words about racial relations - some big topics, some not so big topics, and none of it makes a bit of difference when my world has closed in on itself.

So I can't sit alone. And as much as I wish it would, the pile of work is only growing larger. My boss understands - of course she does, she is also my mother-in-law, and spent all of Friday at my side, holding my hand when my husband was in the bathroom or if I needed a hand for both of mine. My life has not ended, though, even if his did.

Today I'm going back to work for the first time. At the office instead of at home. They have an extra desk I can use, and a pile of easy correcting that doesn't require the words to make sense. Maybe I can only manage an hour. Maybe I can manage two before I fall apart. But... that's one hour, two hours, that I'm not alone and there might be a span of entire minutes when I don't think about how much my heart hurts.