Tomorrow, I'll be giving my brother the crib, high chair and baby sling. I'm not sure where the stroller is, but he'll get that too. (check and check)
There are things I'm not giving away. Like the last two pairs of maternity pants that arose from the dryer today. One pair is from Monday, when I found out the baby died. The other is from Tuesday, when I had the D & C, and my pregnancy was officially terminated. There is no way I'm giving that kind of mojo to goodwill.
Right now, they're in the kitchen. In the garbage bin. But, I don't think that's far enough away from me. I want to go get them and put them in the trash bin out in the garage. Yet, not far enough. I want to put them in my car, drive 4 hours away. Then, I'll put them in some dumpster outside a hotel or something. Yet, not far enough. So, I'll drive even further, out on some beach somewhere. Then, I'll set the entire car on fire, so the pants can just burn to ashes.
Yeah, it's not a healthy place in my head right now.
I realize it's not the pants. It's the pain that those pants represent. And even if I drive to mars and blow the planet, the car and the pants to smitherens, I'll still be here. Sitting with my pain. Which crushes me so hard sometimes I can't breathe. I just sob these retched sobs. This tight ballon of jello just lays there, in my chest. Coagulating.
So what do I do with this? I keep going.
Talked to a good friend tonight. Confirmed the plans for a get together tomorrow. I had to tell her the news. I don't know how to tell people who love me, who loved that I was pregnant, who love my kids . . I don't know how to tell people about the miscarriage without traumatizing them.
And I lie.
I say I am getting better. I say today is a better day then Monday. I say I have good days and bad days but today is a good day. And while that may be true, it's not true yet. It seems I have no choice but to fight for every laugh, every smile, and every joy I feel when my kids are near.
And fight I will. I believe this unbelievable pain will be here for quite some time. But that's not going to stop me. I will continue to have love and happiness seeping in my every pore.
Pants be damned, I will rise again.
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2 Left a message at the beep:
Cut up the pants and make bean bags out of them for Pancake and Peanut to play with. Metomorphisus is the name of the game....sadness to joy
Lotus's suggestion is so hopeful and positive, but my darker mind can't imagine anything worse than giving those pants to the children (transformed or otherwise). I would probably burn them in the back yard and have a good cathartic cry and a beer while they go. But, "fuck them. in the garbage they go," sounds like the best solution of all... Sounds like you are grieving in a healthy way.
Of course I don't know you or your friends, but I don't think you have to or should lie to them. "Honestly, I am devastated," [or insert your own honest words there] is a perfectly fine response.
Take care of yourself.
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