Grief and Gratitude

7:00 am - hear M dry heaving in the bathroom. Yegads, that doesn't sound good.

7:15 am - M leaves for work but cancels his dentist appt so he's not "smelly of sick." I blame weight of the day. He's more pragmatic and blames cheap beer from the comedy show we went to last night in our quest to avoid staying home for any prolonged period of time this weekend. He's probably right. PBR, you are the devil. A sick-bellied devil.

7:30 am - I check my calendar, and cancel morning meetings and calls. Close my eyes, and defiantly fall back asleep on the couch. Fuck you world. I ain't doing shit for you today. At least for as long as I can avoid it.

9:00 am - call from boss wakes me up. Wondering what's on my plate for today. "As little as possible," I respond. "You ok?" Sure. You? Sure, she says. Reminding me that I am not the only person in the world with woes. She doesn't pry. I don't either. But it's clear we'll be gentle with each other today.

Three years ago, they were here. Today they are not.

Five years ago, we promised each other to do whatever we were able to have a child. Today, we are still longing, and trying, and wanting.

The grief evolves. The absence remains.

Luckily, so does our love for each other (damn, it is solid), and our determination, and the support of our friends and family, even when said family doesn't always know how best to express it. I just got a call from y brother who sheepishly confessed: "I just "liked" you FB status, but that doesn't mean I "like" it but I didn't know what to say so I did that but then I thought oh crap that's not what I mean so I thought I'd better call you and just tell you I love you."

Well shit. You can't really ask for more than that, can you?

***

Right now, I am home. Skipping a luncheon, avoiding a deadline. Eventually I will have to show my face at a 1:30 meeting I can't figure out how to get out of. Then another at 4:30, then another until about 6 pm. But right now, I am here. Looking through the meager handful of photos we have, feeling their blankets, touching their tiny, tiny foot and hand impressions. How could they have been so small? So beautifully and perfectly formed? How could Jovi have M's nose? How could we see poise and grace in Isa, defiance and spunk in J? If I was projecting, how could M have the exact same thoughts? So much to see in those tiny faces that would be nearing 3 years old today.

When does this get easier?

***

Right now tears are forming, not from pain or sad, but from being overcome with emotion. Texts and emails and notes started seeping in this morning before I even opened my eyes for the second time. I am touched. We are touched, by the outpouring of love and abiding and simple kindness we are seeing today. It is humbling. And strengthening. Because I know this is not an easy time of year for many of you, for a myriad of reasons. To reach out and share your love...it renders me speechless.

Notes from friends remind me of how much we were cared for when we returned home empty handed three years ago. In the midst of our raw grief, we were weepy. We were cavalier and stone-faced. We made inappropriate jokes. We winced at innocuous comments. We were fragile. We were invincible. We were needy and wanted company. We were offended at social demands and wanted to be left alone. We had to have been simply unbearable.

And yet we were picked up and held and loved and fed and reminded to bathe (um, sorry) and taught little by little how to be human again. And for the most part, I think we succeed. On most days.

Thank you. For everything. Thank you.