Time must heal

It's been 6 weeks since the miscarriage. No one really talks about it anymore, except me and Guy. Even we don't mention it everyday. Most people never mention it anymore.

Granted, it's not the best conversation topic, and you do sort of run out of things to say about it. But yesterday, I remembered something from that day that I hadn't thought of yet. And it made me realize that to me, it's not a tired subject. In my brain, the dialogue continues and probably will.

It was a minor thing that I remembered. A student was telling me about giving blood at school yesterday. He was talking about the needles and how he hates them and how it didn't help that they had to try both arms. I laughed and said that I hated them too, and that when I had the IV in my hand in December, it was so weirdly uncomfortable. Just like that. All natural and smooth. Of course, he is a student with whom I am very comfortable. The only non adult student to ask me in January, "Are you okay?"

It's just that I had forgotten about the IV and how it dug into my hand when I tried to sit up in the bed. Rather, I had never thought about it after leaving the hospital.

So I sit this morning, replaying it all in my head again. Trying to remember every little piece of my last day with Cleatus.

We would have been 18 weeks today. We should be going in for another ultrasound. Instead, I'm going for a mammogram. Ah, the lovely squishing of the boobs. How I love to put it up there on the cold plate and make the nice booblagna sandwich.

Time must heal though. Because I have typed all these words without a tear. Just the the hole in my heart that I can feel when I think about our baby - when I breathe in, it feels like that breath is escaping through that hole, and I have to stop - and breathe again. That is what I feel now. Just the hole.