I remember picking up the pieces. I remember having hours and then days of time where I didn’t break down and cry. Things were getting “better” and my life was finally moving on. What a sick and cruel joke.
2.5 months after we lost Paige, I was faced with our first big social event. A wedding. Despite being so excited for the couple I remember dreading the actual day. Dreading what I knew would be me ignoring a pregnant friend, dreading the happiness, just not wanting to go. I’m pretty sure I made the argument to Dan on more than one occasion but it was me who finally decided that we would be there to celebrate with the happy couple.
And then I remember lying on our hotel floor. Unable to respond to any of his pleas for me to say something. To take more breaths than what I was taking… Anything. I’m not sure of the real start of that low point but I could no longer claim that I was getting “better” and or moving on.
Seemingly over night I had slipped back into the utter all encompassing sadness of my grief. I would come to hysterics again at the mention of a babe. Within five minutes of meeting with my OB to get a referral to therapy, I was having drugs shoved at me. No thank you. I want to make this very clear, it’s not that I’m against anyone taking drugs to help regulate whatever it is that they’re dealing with. It’s just that it isn’t for me.
That very week I started weekly therapy sessions. As time went on I started to feel better and thought about the pain less and less. That isn’t to say that I wasn’t still thinking about Paige every single day because I did, and I still do. But once again, as soon as I’d deluded myself into thinking that I was okay and that things were moving in the right direction, the holidays hit. And that same inexplicable grief and depression that hit me Labor Day weekend was back with a vengeance.
I put this out there for you because I find comfort in hearing that I’m not alone. Neither are you. I am going to try to start writing more. For all of our benefits.
