to expect it, there is something so surprising
about waking up in a world that looks so different
than the one you fell asleep in.
My parents have both asked me in the last few days;
have you been writing about all of this?
And I haven't.
I've put together phrases in my head
and I've thought a lot about writing
as my imagined version of the next year
shifts and remakes itself.
I haven't taken pictures either, though
I have all these images in mind
of pictures I didn't take
over the last eight weeks.
The image of myself
standing at the bathroom sink
holding the test and breathing
out one quiet expletive
as I watched the tiny screen change.
Or the list of names
held to the refrigerator with a magnet,
written in Amelia's neat
handwriting. The soft fleece
of a tiny sweater that I'd packed away
years ago. Smiling and
thinking how I hadn't planned
to need it again.
Or sitting in the the waiting room,
knowing before anyone else did
that something wasn't right,
that the tiny ocean I carried inside
was a much quieter place
than it should have been.
Or the way my body refused
to loosen its grip, and the strange
days of waiting for an ending.
I am raking leaves and waiting to miscarry.
I am splitting firewood and waiting to miscarry.
I am lying awake in bed waiting to miscarry.
Then finally the surgery,
the sweet nurses who said they were sorry,
the white round lights of the operating room,
the bits of memory wiped clean with anesthesia,
that slowly resurfaced
hours or days later.
Or thinking it was all finally over
the moment my dr. called to tell me
there could be dangerous cells
that were left behind, there will be
testing and more testing
How do you feel?
Really, the simplest words are best.
I don't know.
I'm reminding myself that now is not the time
for grand decisions
but all I want is for something to change,
it feels like not enough
to simply pick up
where my life left off
I have the utmost faith in time.
I know I will feel differently in a week,
or a month. But I'm trying to tell myself
that's it's okay to not let this go yet.
As my friend, Sarah, wrote me, I need
"to sit and feel what I'm feeling - let it
weave and wave its way out."
The snow is still falling,
a bit lighter now.
Just this, stopping to put it all
was what I needed.
To give these weeks the weight they deserve,
to hold them until
they are not so heavy
and I can carry them
with something like grace.