Much Too Bright

It is a Wednesday morning, and I am sitting in bed.  The small lamp across the room and the morning’s subtle light is cautiously holding in the all the darkness within the space.  My maternity yoga pants are made for my bloated belly, and I feel tinges of nausea.  I ate a banana because an empty stomach surely results in queasiness.   The sweetness on my tongue a few minutes before is now starting to sour.  My eyes are poor gatekeepers for the continuous tears.

I am waiting.  I am waiting for my body to realize that there is nothing growing in my body.  Nature creates such beauty and awe, doesn’t she?  Nature also finds cruel, but significant methods to keep us safe—and sad.    “It will be about the size of a grape,” the doctor told us.  “It will feel like labor.”  Except this laboring will not bring elation, cooing and that most perfect smell of a new human.  I am good at laboring.  I have done it twice before, and, truth be told, I miss it.  It is hard work, and I relish in meaningful, hard work.  Anything worthwhile takes great effort, and I am stumbling as I work hard for the loss of a grand, wonderful love that would have been in my arms later this year.  

I am grateful, too.  My brain knows to be grateful for the two little girls sitting next to me in bed this morning.  “Mama, why you have band-aids on your arms?  Mama doesn’t feel good.”  I am grateful for the man who quickly pulled the girls off of me when he saw my sad eyes.  This is the same man who is also mourning and must set aside his needs to be my strong, my comfort and my hope.  It is a fine balance, and he does it so well.  My brain feels entitled.  How dare I ask for another healthy pregnancy when I have already been given so much?  Many have been through much, much more, and I know all of this.  Still, my breaths are short, my heart is devastated and I am broken. 

I decided to take a shower.  The water will wash away the stiffness on my face, and the warmth, I know, always brings solace.  As I walked into the bathroom, the light from the window shone much too brightly.  My eyes squinted to shield from its taunting rays and cockiness.  I stood there to take it all in.  The Ache, the Gratitude, the Expectation will only exist together like this on this May morning.  There will be more joyful days, I know.  Silly moments are eager to resurface.  I appreciate all moments of my journey.  For now, I think, I will give myself kindness and rest.   

And, for a brief moment, I smiled and cried thinking that Mom is now with our angel-dear.