Okay, okay. Here I am.
Up until two weeks ago--with the exception of my wallet, keys, and five dollar bills--I had never experienced much loss in my life.
I lost my Grandma when I was 7ish and my Memere when I was 5ish, but in retrospect, I was much too young to understand the magnitude of their deaths.
I went on to lose my dear turtle Skippy sometime during middle school, and by that point in my life I'm pretty sure that I was able to process the heartbreak. I cried my eyes out as I hung my handmade "MISSING TURTLE: REWARD" posters up and down my entire block. I wanted to vomit as I organized my neighborhood friends into a systematic search party. And I begged...BEGGED...my father to keep searching under the deck loooooong after dark.
But I'll admit it--after a day or two I was relieved that I didn't have to spend $10 on a reward for that gimpy old turtle. After all, I was twelve and I had candy to buy.
My next significant loss came during my senior year in high school, when my
(See? I told you I've have an easy life...)
But I made peace with the boyfriend four years later when we shared a whirlwind weekend in Philly--on his dime. He professed his love to me, I professed my love to him. We kissed, we hugged, we wedding planned....and then I met Jared three days later. HA!
I won't lie--I sent him a wedding announcement.
As you can see, the losses in my life were minimal. Until two weeks ago.
When the ultrasound tech turned to me with a solemn, straight face, I already knew what she was going to say: I'm very sorry, but there's definitely no heartbeat.
And that was only the beginning of it. It wasn't until I'd visited my midwife, a running store, my midwife again, the emergency room, the labor & delivery wing (complete cruelty), and a funeral home that I really began to feel it.
I wasn't pregnant anymore. My winter baby had sprouted wings, and there wasn't a #$%^ing thing I could do about it.
It's two weeks later now, and I can't lie--this still completely sucks. Right now I feel one-half lost, two-parts depressed, fifteen pounds fat, and absolutely broke from a high-deductible insurance plan.
I'm also feeling very unmotivated in the workplace, but that's not out of the ordinary--I've always been a lazy sack of crap at when it comes to work. (I don't feel bad about it, nor should I--after all goofball, you're the one reading my blog from your desk!)
Other than taking my days one minute at a time, I'm really not sure what to do next. Should I run another marathon? Get another dog? Sew another purse? Have another baby?
Maybe eat another cupcake?...Cry another tear?
I have no freaking clue.
All I know is that I honestly--albeit naively--assumed that things would get a little bit easier every single day. And even though I'm in a general upward trend, I sincerely failed to anticipate the peaks and valleys that come with this kind of a loss.
Damn. Damn. Double damn.
Today I ran into the President of the Maine Counseling Association at a lunch joint--helluva nice guy. I kept the conversation light, asking questions like, "How do you plan to renovate your new building?" and "What type of marketing worked for you in your early days of private practice?"
But all I wanted to do...ALL I WANTED TO DO...was crawl into that gentleman's lap, wrap his well-dressed arms around my sad little shoulders, and say, "Sir? Would you mind stroking my hair for a while?"
But I didn't. I didn't do it...and I consider that a minor victory on my part.
And that's that. My depresso post for the day.
I hope you're all having a better couple of weeks than I am. And for those who aren't, and unfortunately I know they exist--you are cordially invited to come and sit in my lap, because seriously, I'd be more than happy to stroke your hair for a long, loooong time.