Beauty in the break down

On Friday, hubs and I went on a date to this place he’d stumbled across that was a 60s era drive-in restaurant. Though it had been rainy most of the week, that evening the weather was pretty nice, and as we headed home we had the windows down and sun roof open and it was that sort of quintessential pre-summer evening that evoked thoughts of peace and calm and freedom that people (Right? Not just me?) associate with the coming of the summer season.

And then I lost it. A wave of sadness felt like it was literally overtaking me (though, not literally, of course) and all of a sudden I was quietly sobbing because this summer was supposed to be about rest and relaxation and preparing for the baby we would welcome in the fall. It was supposed to be chock full of hope for what was to come. And in that moment I felt complete desolation, because there was no baby anymore and the only thing that summer would be chock full of was emptiness. I cried the entire rest of the way home, and when we finally got there hubs put his arms around me and I sobbed out loud.

After a while the sadness settled down and so did I, and my husband gently reminded me that not all hope was lost. After all, I’d finally gotten my period, so that was something. That seems like hope for the summer, he said.

When I think about the breakdown, especially when I felt I had been doing “so well”, I realized that since going back to school after taking a week off following the loss, I had been going full throttle. As a teacher in May, there are so many things that need to get done in addition to the hundreds of tiny fires from tiny humans that need to be addressed and put out each day. I hadn’t had the time or the space to dwell in my thoughts about the baby. On Friday night, for the first time in awhile, I did.

And I further thought, it was probably good that I broke down. I needed to; I had forced my grief to the back burner a bit so I could handle everything else I needed to do. But it hadn’t gone away, and it needed space to breathe. I needed to let it out. It tracks back to what the counselor said about grief not being a linear process. That it comes in waves.

Beauty in the break down.

 

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