Dealing with this loss has been similar to the others in many ways. I've blogged about the aftermath so many times now. I'm a pro at this, I tried to explain to my anesthesiologist. I warned him that anesthesia makes me sob and fight, even though he didn't believe me. Six times and a middle finger was my mental response, although I gave a tight lipped smile on the outside. I know what I'm doing. I know the surgery well. I know the drill for communicating the news. I know the process for dealing with work. I know to take off some time and start super gluing my life back together in some way.
I allow myself some time to sleep. To stay in bed. To read. To cry. To hate everything. But I set a limit and make myself live again, even if it is just going through the motions. To be honest, I have struggled with following through on the living part.
My preference has been to lie in bed and watch New Girl on Netflix and eat Lucky Charms and bomb pops and watch the episode when Nick finally kissed Jess over and over and ugly cry over how romantic it was. God, that kiss.
In other words, I'd be totally okay ignoring my grief, forgetting my silence with God, and pretending my life (and all I've ever dreamed about) hasn't been ripped apart.
But that is the great thing about friends and family. I've had to get up and get showers, vacuum, sweep. I put on real clothes and a little makeup. I talked about it. We prayed. I ate food other than cereal or Halloween candy. I've returned hopeful, encouraging messages from everyone on every social media I have. I functioned with other humans alone in a grocery store and didn't have a grief-sob when the pumpkin delights got replaced by the disgusting Christmas tree cakes at Food Lion... That kind of self control was a big deal. I went shopping with Mama.
In other words, I'm still living. I'm not picking pretty strong trees to wrap my car around. I'm grateful to have people who text me regularly, who bring copious amounts of coffee beans and food to my house, who reassure me that my anger towards God is normal, human, healthy, and forgiven, who don't try to rationalize this or discern God's will, who make me feel like I've got a purpose, and who refuse to let me think less of myself because my body attacks the thing I'd die to save - my child.
I feel like grief is a lot like a really, really dark place where it's easy to get lost. Sometimes finding the door is overwhelming and exhausting. And really, I'm so pissed off I don't even want to try. It's really easy to give it up, lie down, and stay in the dark and assume your eyes will adjust.
I'm glad my family and friends won't let me stay in the dark. They come bearing flashlights in my darkness. Without them, it's just too tempting to stay.