It's been a week.
My body is doing pretty good.
My heart is needing more time.
Wednesday was the first night out of the house in over a week.
I had all kinds of anxiety about going to my class.
I knew there were probably going to be questions along the lines of:
Where were you last week?
Why weren't you here?
I managed to get through the whole class with no questions.
It was truly a sigh of relief for me.
Then last night one of my students just had to
ask the questions that hurt the very most:
Do you have babies?
Do you want babies?
Why don't you have babies?
I don't think she understood the word "miscarriage,"
but she for sure understood the tears that welled up
and my voice that was suddenly gone.
There are other questions that I've become annoyed with too.
The question: How soon can you start trying again?
Of course I've asked that question to myself.
Of course I'll talk to my doctor about it too.
But the truth is, whatever that stretch of time is,
I don't know when emotionally I'll be read again.
It's not like I just sprained an ankle and have to sit on the sidelines.
Its not like I just fell off a horse.
This isn't an injury.
This isn't an accident.
I really, really, can't explain how much I truly
the women who have sent me emails,
with kind and comforting words that validate my pain.
Because the "I'm sorry to hear that, how soon can you try again?"
question makes me feel like I'm being dramatic,
or overly emotional and that it's not a big deal.
Because it is a big deal to me.
And I don't know if its silly or not,
but last weekend I was really wishing that
I had something to remember him by -just something small,
that I could hold and look at and have.
On Monday I got a package in the mail from
one of my dearest friends,
and there in the box was a little stuffed lamb.
Exactly what I wanted.
Just like Wendy knocking on my door,
I'm counting that as a small miracle.
I hope you all have a