It hit me again today, after shoving a quarter of a bag of chocolate chips into my mouth – I am not pregnant anymore.

*****

I had my post-partum visit with the doctor this morning. Normally it would be at 6 weeks but we will be out of town. He got called in to surgery just after I arrived and when I saw him, 45 minutes later, he was still in scrubs. I knew that hearing his voice, seeing him, would be hard. His eyes were kind when he walked in the room and he apologized for keeping me waiting. I understood. Not long ago I was the emergency surgery that kept him from his appointments.

I am a good healer. He was pleased when he looked at my scar. He asked me how everything was going. I answered for my body, but not my heart. We talked about birth control. We talked about the chances of another pregnancy making it to term. He looked me in the eye and said There is no way to know. You need to heal, and then you need to decide if you can handle it if doesn’t work or if you’ll hit 42 and wish you’d tried one more time.

I appreciate his bluntness though he is often criticized for it. I trusted him to take me into surgery because of it. I asked about the placenta abrupting. Apparently it’s common in women with hypertension, cocaine users and occasionally low-risk pregnancies. He added that there is a slightly increased chance of it happening again. More signs pointing me toward the door marked “No More Biological Babies”.

He went to grab my hand as he left, looked me in the eye and gave me a hug. He walked out the door. I collapsed. My son is really dead. There is no longer a need for me to come to this office, to see this man, to hope that my body can hold on. We are done. The story of this pregnancy is over. All I can do now is slowly, achingly heal.

*****

In other news I’ve lost a whopping five pounds. Sigh. It’s going to be a long road. Looks like I’m going to have to let go of my sugar addiction.

There are moments where I feel guilty that I am not grieving enough. I will suddenly realize that I don’t feel the weight on my chest, that my eyes have been dry for an hour or two. I might compare my grief to others – a lost husband, an older child – these are unbearable losses I imagine. Mine I can somehow forget for a few minutes. My baby wasn’t even born yet.

I marvel at grief. The dead do not need our tears. They are safe, loved, held. They want us to live, to feel joy, to dance in the sun, in the rain or under the stars. Benjamin does not need me to mourn him. He knows he is loved.

We grieve because we are human. We grieve for what we miss of the past, for what, in the future, might have been. Often we suffer, when our minds get in the way, when we worry about what is expected of us. I don’t think we need to suffer. We just need to get out of our own way and truly, deeply, grieve. We need to talk about it, share it, find ways to help each other through it. We need ritual, ceremony. We need to allow grief to teach us, to hand us its rich gifts.

I think of all of us grieving at this moment, around the world. If we all allowed the waves to wash over us without fighting them, would we float to the top? If we listened to our hearts and said yes to the tears when they needed to come, yes to the ache, yes to the laughter, yes to letting go. If we stayed away from destructive habits and addictions, if we remained conscious through the process as much as possible, could our collective healing change the world?

If we allowed ourselves to mourn fully, completely, deeply when we needed it; if we found gratitude in the moments when the heaviness lifts, would we be so afraid of death? Would we live more joyful lives? I wonder. I have no answers, but I wonder.

It’s interesting to watch grief takes its toll. I am so happy to have my husband home for three weeks after eleven weeks of work on the road. (He was home for a few days every week but it was a long haul and we are grateful for all of it). Every day it seems we have a moment where I watch us miss each other. We’ll have a conversation where even though we are on the same side, it feels like we’re fighting. The unhappiness is palpable.

Today’s moment happened to be in a Verizon Wireless store. I know where it’s coming from, I know why it’s happening and it still feels awful. I felt the wave rising and I knew I could either fight the lump in my throat or leave and let it go. Thankfully he understood. As I sobbed in the car I thought about the secrets we all keep as we are out in the world. How many people are quietly grieving as they go about their day? How many end up in a car, a restroom, or a dark corner letting the wave wash over them so they can function again? How many of them fight to get through and end up yelling at their child, walking away from their spouse, or mistreating a customer? How many of us hold grief at arm’s length only to have it wreak havoc on our lives?

One of the questions I ask myself these days (when I remember) is what would compassion do here? Then I take a deep breath and turn in that direction. It’s not always the easiest choice, but without a doubt, its the one that feels the best.

*****

Ada and I had a long conversation about death tonight. It started as we talked about our good friends – family really – who recently separated. Ada wanted to know why they were sad. Then she talked about their dog that died earlier this year, then our dog that died a year before that. She wanted to know what happened to them after they died, then what happened to her little brother, and why they all died. She wanted to know Did the veterinarian make my brother alive again?

It’s so hard to know how much to say and how to say it. I don’t want to scare her. I also know how harmful lies and adult expressions can be. Children take everything literally. When I was in my Masters program I took a workshop on how to help children understand death and their experience of grief and they made it very clear – don’t lie. Don’t tell them Grandpa is up in the sky because then if they get on an airplane, they might look for him. Be careful when talking about sickness or they’ll be terrified if they, or Mommy, or Daddy gets sick. Whatever you do, don’t tell them the person who died went to sleep or they’ll never want to close their eyes again.

So we talked about the fact that their bodies stopped working. We talked about their spirits going to a place where they are loved and safe. We talked about bodies either returning to the earth, or to the air. I was as honest, as age appropriate and as positive as I knew how to be, while still wondering if I was saying too much. She had lots of questions. Then she thought about it for a while and said I don’t like it when they are in two. I wasn’t sure what she meant.

Like Buster and my baby brother, when they are in two pieces.

Ah, you mean when their bodies and their spirits are apart?

Yes. I don’t like that. She smiled. But Squirt and TC (the cats) are alive. Ella (the other dog) is alive. I’m alive. You and Daddy are alive.

Yes we are sweetheart.

May we be so for a good long while. Especially you, my sweet, especially you.

I am beginning to recognize the waves more quickly. Instead of struggling at their onslaught, this morning I surrendered. I sat down, bowed my head and let them wash over me. I felt my body shake with sobs, my breath catch, the tears drip off my chin. Instead of fighting I let it happen and when it passed and I could breathe again, I stood up, put on some soul-healing music and continued with the day.

If only it were always that simple.

Perhaps it is.