“ Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it to break” – William Shakespeare

Hi-Ho… it’s back to work we go. I can feel my soul trembling within my skin. It’s first day nerves. First day back to school, without the shiny shoes and new lunch box. Everything still looks the same… derr, its only been 5 weeks!… but everything is now so different. It was refreshing returning to class… to see them… to speak to them… to hear them. Gosh, they were a tough mix, but how they would make me forget, just for a few moments, what had happened. The cards, the hugs, the demands to never leave again… oh, and the drawings. Drawings of hubby and I holding hands with a little winged baby looking down on us that said, “baby Sienna.” I heavy-heartedly threw every single one of them away. The conversations that followed; “Your baby died. It’s really sad. We missed you.” It seems that once they had acknowledged what had happened and shared how it made them feel, then everything else in the world could continue as normal. That simple. Oh, kids. Why do we ever grow up? How children can be chicken soup for the soul.

I know some colleagues are uncomfortable to be near me, but it’s ok. I don’t notice. I’m extremely busy, you see. I don’t have time to chat. I’ve got an unchanged pigeonhole I need to check for the 5^th time this recess. I’m busy making this cup of tea that I don’t even want to drink. I have a meeting with this wall of mugs for the next 5 minutes as my tea is being made. I’m busy making more work for myself on a computer, just so I can stare at the screen for a little while. I’m busy hiding my tears in the bathroom, washing my face… blowing my nose… avoiding eye contact. I’m busy being ‘out of the way’. I’m busy trying to ‘keep it together’. I’m busy not thinking.

There’s a big, fat elephant in the room. It’s me. I know it’s hard to know what to say… what can you say, really? It’s easier to say nothing. But those strong women who said something; “We missed you, we’re glad your back.” The ones who confessed; “I don’t know what to say.” 

You said something.

The ones who hugged or squealed with joy, “you’re here!”  Thank you, strong women. You made this elephant feel momentarily at ease. Where you swallowed your reservations and let me take a breath by piercing a hole in this prison of the unspoken. Silence hurts. Silence is heavy. Silence is suffocating. When out of consideration conversations stop. When out of awkwardness people go quiet. Thank you, friends for your words, your distraction, your nod, your smile, your eye contact.

I hate that I make people uncomfortable. I hate that people are conscious of me. Every afternoon driving home I would cry… mourning the old self I’m still trying to find. Annoyed at my weakness, at my awkwardness, at my continued stalemate which has already lasted too long. Fearful that I have to do this all again tomorrow.

I think I’m going to need some more of that chicken soup.

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others” – Pericles

‘Time is a physician that heals every grief’ – Diphilus

It’s been a whole 5 weeks and I’m scheduled for my first appointment back at the hospital with the Genetic Counsellors. We are hoping for some ‘answers’. I don’t let hubby come. I feel he’s already been through enough, and I make out that the appointment is just a ‘check up’. He fights it, but realises quickly that it’s not up for discussion. My mum on the other hand… well… she doesn’t take no for an answer, and I realise quickly that it’s not up for discussion. Touché. Walking back through the hospital again felt surreal… all my sense are heightened as if I’m dreaming, but I feel completely disconnected. This didn’t happen. The two doctors give their condolences with those haunting sad eyes that seem to follow me everywhere. They explained their concern regarding this appointment being “too soon” after everything that had happened. I’ve been waiting 5 weeks to know! It’s not soon enough! They then went on to ask questions about family medical history and revealed the results from the amniocentesis and autopsy. We find out that she had a ‘severe form of a rare and complex anomaly’. Medically, there are no genetic or environmental reasons how or why. No rhyme. No reason. No explanation. “Just because.” I don’t cry. I just nod and say ‘ok’. It hurts. It hurts really bad. “You’re taking this very well.” Well, how else am I supposed to take it? Tear my clothes to express my deep sorrow? I’m sure if mum wasn’t there I would be a puddle, but I have someone to be brave for. They go on to explain that the likelihood of anything happening in future pregnancy is the same as everyone else. We all get put back into the lotto, but nevertheless, I’m told to contact them when we’re ready to have another baby (no thanks) and they’ll ‘look after me’. I’m booked in for a subsequent appointment in a few weeks to see a ‘panel’ at the Infancy and Pregnancy Loss Clinic and to have ‘questions ready’. My head is already flooded with questions as I digest this new insight. No reason? No one? Nothing to blame? Not even the cheeseburger?  I don’t want to go. Enough already.

With all this information and no-answer answers, I return to work the next day. Get your smile ready… lights, camera… who am I kidding. This sucks.