I say it was a rough weekend, but it wasn't really that bad. A few things happened, though, that kind of put me down in the dumps.
On one of the boards I visit, a woman called me pro-death after I had a problem with her saying she wouldn't be heartbroken if Barack Obama were assassinated. I said that if she was really and truly pro-life, she would be heartbroken over his death. She then went on to say that was absurd and would be like her saying since I was "pro-death," I shouldn't care if he died. Later, after I confronted her about it, she said she didn't say I was "pro-death," but she did. It doesn't matter now anyway; the thing is, she hurt me more than anyone has with regards to what I went through this summer.
I was so afraid of being judged for wanting to end the pregnancy that we didn't tell anyone beyond immediate family what we were doing. Brian didn't even tell his parents. I am not, nor have I ever been, pro-death. I was pro what was best for my child and my family, but I knew that I would be judged by people like her, so I kept it to myself. She doesn't realize the grief and the guilt I felt when making that decision. I was in tears and didn't sleep well for the rest of the night.
My best friend at work promised me that after everything was over with Jenna, we would go out for a "Girls Night Out," so on Saturday, we went out for that. Being around them and cutting up and having a good time basically made me realize all over again that I am a completely changed person from the one I was a year ago. Even in the midst of a good time, I was still thinking of my dead baby and wishing she were alive. I had Georgia Peach Martini at the restaurant and thought that if Jenna were still alive, I wouldn't be able to have that. We moved on to a bar later, and even though I was drinking Coke then (I'm not much of a drinker at all; I didn't even finish the martini), I thought that if I was pregnant, I wouldn't be in the bar at all because of the smoke.
Mostly, I just felt beyond my friends. I don't know if that makes sense or not, but it's like I know something they don't. I know the terrible pain of losing a child, of holding a baby that's never going to grow up or move or say any words. I know what it's like to have the hope of life stifled, what it's like to know that things truly do not go the right way sometimes. I think I might have known that before, but I had never really lived it until I lost Jenna.
Then today, I went to take a photograph for work, and the last time I had seen one of the ladies was a week or two before Jenna was diagnosed. I had just started showing then and was wearing maternity clothes, so she knew I was pregnant. She asked me today how the baby was. It was like a punch in the stomach. I stammered and stammered and finally just said that we lost her. She apologized, and you could tell it bothered her that she mentioned it. I told her not to worry.
I wondered how long the reminders would hurt, and I realized they probably would forever. I know with Granny I am now able to remember her without crying, and at times, without all the pain. I know it's getting easier to bear, not better, just easier. But, I think the difference is that Granny had a chance to live a full and long life, and Jenna never got that chance. At least I have solid concrete memories of Granny. All I have of Jenna is fleeting butterfly movements.
All of this isn't to say that I'm not doing well. I'm doing much better than I was two months ago, or even a month ago. I don't cry every day on my way home from work. I don't cry in the bathtub every single time I take a bath. I don't cry every night after everyone in the house is asleep. I'm getting better and pushing through this pile of grief that has landed in front of me, and I know there has to be rough patches along the way.
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