Inevitably, I re-read my own writing. Social media provides me with “On This Day” a year ago recap of my posts. I was fourteen weeks pregnant, out of the first trimester, complaining in my own writing about still being nauseous and having dizzy spells. A few days ago, I was reading about how we were at a baseball game and mulling over the fact that the following year (this year) we would have a baby.
I hate reading the blasé statements I made, almost as much as I hate reading what pregnant people write now. How little I knew. Often, how little they know. What seems like such a natural state is instead fraught with struggle.
I fight tears as I talk to people about how many children I have. How many living, or how many total?
I fight tears as I think about whatever will happen next. As friends circle around me to remind me of their support, they let me know that they want only the moon and the stars for me after what I’ve experienced. I don’t even know what a positive outcome would be at this point. No pregnancy? Pregnancy but a very early loss? A baby? Any of those seems preferable to being dragged along for months only to experience a tragic loss like before. It weighs heavily.
Couple all of the personal emotions with the near-constant horrific events in the world. Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, the Dallas Police Shootings, and now the Nice, France attack. So much hate that it is hard to see love. The world cries, is afraid, and encircles, but it feels like little changes.
“There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”