I am exhausted. My heart feels shattered into a million glittering pieces. I want my husband to come home, my kitchen to clean itself, my body to feel a thousand times better NOW, not six months from now. I want time by myself to write, sleep, walk, create, cry. I want time with my daughter where I am fully present and engaged in her play. I want to watch a movie, read a book, have an easy conversation with a friend. I want to be moved in to our new house with more space and less stuff.

I want…

Today I spent an hour (more, actually) on the phone with the incredible Julie Daley. She inspires me, educates me, and challenges me to think differently with her words, and the gift of her help with my awakening through grieving has been immeasurable. At the end of the call, she gave me homework. I am to decide on my actions for the rest of the week by listening to my heart say “I don’t want to…” or “I want to…”.

This is hard for me to do. There is a should sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, when I am tempted to melt into want. Right now, it’s nagging about the dishes, the floor that needs sweeping, the toys that need to be put away. It’s telling me I need to go to sleep, oh and remember to take those supplements the chiropractor said I needed and, and, and…

There’s so much noise it’s hard for me to hear I want to.

Deep breath.

Let the thoughts go. Listen to the knowing.

Take the next step. Melt into want.

I spent a half hour on the phone today with one of the two nurses who helped me through my last three hospital visits. One of the two who sent flowers two weeks ago. It was healing to talk with her. It turns out she heads the committee that collects and distributes the baby loss information we received. I told her how much it helped, how grateful I was to have it.

I was standing outside as we spoke, watching my naked child splash through puddles and play with wet sand. She wanted to know who I was talking to – I tried to explain. When I hung up, we played for a while longer. I felt fine.

Tonight as I did the dishes and Ada “cooked dinner” for us, I replayed some of our conversation and was suddenly, vividly, back in my hospital room. I could feel the fatigue, the fear, the pain across my lower abdomen that I thought might be my Cesarean scar tearing but turned out to be contractions caused by the bleeding. Amy sat on my bed talking with me, calming me. I told her each time the  pain came and even though it wasn’t my entire uterus, I could see the concern in her eyes. She told me today that she wanted to change her assignment, to be with me but she couldn’t. Hospital politics kept her from holding my hand longer than the few minutes she could steal from her other patients.

Some people just touch your heart more deeply, she said.

Some people’s hearts are open enough to be touched, I thought.

I cried at the kitchen sink tonight. I am crying now. In grief and in gratitude.

I miss my baby boy.

I am touched at the very core of my being by the kindness of strangers.

Steve is in the air on his way to Germany until next Saturday. I am already exhausted.

I hereby proclaim it to be eat-take-out-when-I-need-to, get-more-sleep, be-extra-kind-to-myself week.

P.S. Miraculously, Ada ate broccoli tonight and stated emphatically “I love broccoli”. I wonder if little angel brothers have any control over things like that.

Steve said to me once, after a particularly wrenching cry, It seems as though, sometimes, you are mourning more than Benjamin’s death.

I think he might be right.

There are times when the sadness overwhelms, and my body leaps and shudders under the weight of my tears, that I see flashes of other times, other places, other losses.

I wonder if I’ve ever fully grieved anything.

I wonder if I can do it this time.