My Bastard Friend, Grief

Ah, yes, there you are. I was waiting for you and wondering where you were. You see, I got swept up in thinking that I could just move on and start formulating plans. Foolishly, once again, I believed that I would heal through doing this alone. I acknowledged the sadness, briefly, but it almost seemed momentary when I began to hit the ground running, combing through donor profiles, getting labs in order, almost planning a nursery for our sure-to-be new addition. I was surprised by how easily I was taking it. However, all along, I kept wondering where you were in the back of my mind, knowing that a fall-out was likely imminent. And now here you are, my old friend, grief, clutching to me and I'm pretty sure you won't let go until your job is done.

You're such a drama queen. You never enter a room quietly. When you come, you arrive in a ball of anger, without warning. You are an irritant, making every noise or word in the room prickle on my skin like needles. You make me snap, you drape me in envy. You make me believe that every woman in the world is living a charmed life and it is I alone who must make the decision between never experiencing motherhood again or going through methods I quite frankly resent. You force me into isolation because whether through social media or real contact, I can't swallow other people's happiness right now and it makes me feel like a monster.

There are some who might profess that looking on the 'bright side' is the only way to deal with this, but I know that there is a danger in denying your existence. I tried hiding you from my son, but in his three-year-old eagerness to try out his vocabulary, he asked me why I was 'furious' yesterday. I hadn't done anything-hadn't raised my voice, but it must hang on my sleeve like an announcement because I am furious. I am so angry. I ask you, "Why is everything so hard? Why must everything be taken away, seemingly all at once?" I won't question any further because I don't want to know and I don't want to tempt the universe.

But do know this: I am pissed. It is ugly, but it is real. I'll try to hide it because for most it is too messy to look at, but it's where I am. Mr. S put it clearly: it's not fair. This isn't f*cking fair. Maybe a preschool playground is the only place those words belong (sans the F word), but they so accurately describe exactly what I think about being stripped of any ability to have further biological children.

So, grief, I know your intentions are good, that it is only through you that I will come to know any sense of peace or healing, but I don't enjoy your company and when you're done this time, try to take a long hiatus because quite frankly, I'm tired of you.