The Ice Is Getting Thinner

So, um, that happened. And by that, for those of you who may have missed it, I mean the death of Adam’s beloved grandfather, my miscarriage at ten weeks, a D&C and a funeral, all within a 48-hour period. Oh wait, I’m sorry, the death and the miscarriage actually happened the same day. My bad.

Adam’s grandpa’s death was somewhat of a surprise — well, as much as one can be surprised by the death of a grandparent in his eighties who has been in assisted living for several years. And yet, to a degree, it was a surprise. It happened quickly — a broken bone led to a certain medication that led to pneumonia, which was a somewhat familiar pattern he’d pulled out of before, but I suppose this time it wasn’t meant to be. Or rather, it was meant to be, just not as we’d hoped, although it ended as we always knew it would, someday.

Coming with this is the usual mix of regret and sorrow — regret that more effort wasn’t made to spend time at the home while we could; sorrow that things won’t ever be exactly as they were, and for Adam, the loss of the final grandparent. (This is an unfamiliar feeling to me, as the majority of mine were dead and/or certifiably senile before I was old enough to understand.)

These things are always complicated.

The day before he died, we’d gone to see him to say goodbye, which was wrenching, as he wasn’t who we remembered, thanks to a drug-induced coma. I will not — in fact, I refuse — choose to remember him that way, although I hope he heard us. I am fairly certain that he did, in fact, and if he didn’t, that he hears us now.

We came home, watched the Patriots lose, hosted his brother for a quick visit and dinner, (he’d flown in to say his own goodbyes), I hit the bathroom and …

Well, there was spotting. I called the office, scheduled an ultrasound for the next morning and tried to forget about it.

The phone rang at 7:30 a.m. with the call that Grandpa had passed. By 11 a.m., I was in the stirrups as a poor ultrasound technician tried in vain to find a heartbeat on a baby that was supposed to be in its 10th week. By noon, I was sobbing in a strange doctor’s office as he said things were moving quickly (and not in a good way), and that he was afraid I’d end up in the ER if I didn’t schedule a D&C for the next morning.

We’re okay — really, we are. It’s hard not to almost chuckle at the ridiculousness of these events happening within hours of each other, because, well, seriously.

These are things I can live with. I can live without Adam’s grandfather, as much as I don’t want to. I knew someday we’d have to. We can try for another baby–we will try for another baby, as we now know, without a doubt, that we want one. We had one, and now we don’t. It happens.

I can live with that.

I have lived with that, for almost a week now. Despite everything, I have not fallen apart. I have made dinner, slept late, taken naps, laughed at my kid, taken the dog for walks, thought about making plans with friends and have, slowly, returned to the land of the living.

I can do that. I will do that. I love to do that. I can live with these losses, for they are part of life. To some degree, they are expected.

What is killing me, and what is impossible to talk about, but what I have to talk about, because it is eating at me from the inside, is the idea that things will get worse. I can live with what’s happened, I am almost proud of surviving with what’s happened without being broken, but what I cannot shake is the idea that there is some nefarious game show host cackling at an audience of twisted sadists, watching us on the Jumbotron, waiting for just the right moment to shout, “Shall we tell them what’s behind CURTAIN NUMBER THREE?” while the audience erupts in sickening jeers.

Because I’ll tell you: That would break me. And it’s precisely that that keeps me up at night. I lay there, watching Sam on the monitor late into the evening, long after I know she’s safe in bed. I listen to Adam’s soft breathing as he sleeps, terrified of losing the two people who are exactly the reasons I was so grateful through all of this.

For that, I am afraid. For that, and only that, I am not entirely okay.

Beyond that, there were so many things about this situation that were positive.

The doctor who performed my surgery took the time to seek out my husband to tell him how sorry he was for the loss of his grandfather, despite having met me for all of ten minutes the day prior. He was gentle, compassionate and tremendously kind.

And oh, you guys. My husband. It would be almost trite to list out the things he did for me last week, but I will say that I have always known I made a wise choice in selecting my life partner, but that when shit’s really down, he steps up in a way that makes the fantasy man in romantic comedies look like some kind of chump.

I am so, so lucky.

I can’t tell you how I felt every time I got one of your messages, cards, emails, flowers and ridiculous amount of food. Well, okay, actually, I can: I felt loved and touched and tremendously uplifted. Strangers took the time to talk to me about their experiences, and for the love of God, I got emails from some of your MOTHERS and AUNTS — people who know me only because, in their words, I was nice to their daughter on the Internet once. I’m not kidding. Friends took my kid, no questions asked, when I had to rush off to surgery a few hours before I was originally scheduled. My sister drove three hours in a blizzard to get to us. People came by with ready-made dinners and desserts and the Food Lush and Style Lush crew sent enough sweets for a small army of mourners, which was a good thing, as we had said small army staying in our guest rooms.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. It was one of the most special things to ever happen to me, and I am not exaggerating, even in the slightest.

I will remember it always.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

*Death Cab for Cutie

103 comments January 23rd, 2011