forward

I'm trying to focus on self care these days.  Right after we lost Nina-Lou, taking care of myself was the last thing on my mind.  I barely ate, and when I did, it was a few chocolates from the box someone brought over in an attempt to assuage our grief.  I found pleasure in drinking coffee and that was pretty much it.  A few weeks out, when Turner and I had taken some time to discuss what we were going to do moving forward, and had decided that we wanted to try again, I realized that I would have to lose the weight and get my body healthy again, in order to hold a pregnancy.  I didn't really give a shit about myself, or feel any confidence in my body to do anything the way it was supposed to, but I wanted a baby bad enough to start going through the motions.  So, I joined weight watchers.  I started running.  I cooked meals from scratch.  I went to acupuncture and brewed the disgusting tea.  I took my vitamins.  I tried very, very hard to care.

But, to be honest, I just really fucking hated myself.  I was fat.  I was a failure.  I was a sad person who cried all the time.  I was a sob story that people tell in hushed tones.  I only found the strength to try and get better because my friends made me feel loved, because my husband made me feel so special, and because I had a deep, gnawing desire to be happy again, and maybe, hopefully, be a mom.

I had a conversation with my massage therapist about how we dress ourselves when we're feeling low.  I had showed up to her office wearing some pieces of jewelry that make me feel good: a feather earring that I lost the match to years ago, a jade ring my friend Mercedez sent me, and a delicate necklace that my friend and Sharla gave me right after Nina died, which has the letter N, Nina's birth stone (turquoise), and a little angel wing.  She commented that she liked my accessories, and I said that I wasn't really wearing them to look pretty, but because they made me feel stronger.  I went on to say that it felt strange that, for the first time in my life, I had very little interest in adorning myself; I kind of wanted my drab appearance to reflect how shitty I felt.  She then told me about a book she read about Native American dress, and how in that culture, the way in which one adorns oneself with clothing, jewelry, makeup, etc., is an important reflection of what one is experiencing inwardly.  This is why it's kinda fucked up when hipsters wear headdresses; that headdress was never meant to be a fashion statement.  It was meant to be a reflection of someone's emotional being.

I had been laboring under the notion that I had to start making myself look better so I would feel better.  But after this discussion, and after giving it some thought, I realized that I was really not ready to start feeling better.  I wanted the world to see my pale lips, my limp hair, my tear stained cheeks, for these things were reflections of my pain, and hence, my love for my little girl.  I knew that I would eventually feel the desire to spruce up my appearance again, but I felt comforted by idea that there was no reason to rush it, and that I was justified in my public mourning.

But those happy moments do creep in.  I did, as the days went by, start to notice beauty more and more.  I had promised myself that I would do this; look around at the world and take it all in, for her, but I found it so difficult at first.  I was too sad, to disappointed.  But as time went on, I found myself awestruck at the light filtering through the trees at the park, or at the patterns left in the sand by the waves.  I started to care, despite myself.

So I started going through the motions a little more easily.

I am still pretty sad when I wake up in this new normal as a bereaved parent trying to pull her shit together.  But I drink my coffee and I joke with my husband and I walk the dog, and it doesn't feel quite as futile as it once did.  I am actually happy about some things.  I look forward to cooking a nice meal for dinner.  I laugh out loud with my friends when shit is really funny.  I make jokes and I don't feel like a fake asshole while I'm doing it.  I eat a little piece of dark chocolate every night, and it tastes pretty fucking good.  I wash the tears from my face and put on pink lipstick and smile at myself in the mirror.  I don't hate myself.  And I don't pity myself, either.  I have been through some fucking hard shit, and I'm not completely broken.  Partially broken, yes.  How could I not be?  My kid died, which is a nightmare.  But, it's not a nightmare.  It is my life.  I will always be Nina-Lou's bereaved mom.  Any subsequent children I have will not be my first born.  I am THIS person now.  I'm not the person I expected to be, and it hurts.  But, fuck it.  I gotta to work with what I have.

I will never be grateful for her death; Nina's death will always be wrong, and always be a tragedy.  But I am eternally grateful for her life, even though it was only spent in my womb.  I am so grateful for experiencing that kind of love.  It stabs at my guts and rips me apart and makes me cry in front of complete strangers, but I feel no shame or remorse or loss of dignity.  I am crying for her, and if anyone else felt the love that I feel for that little baby, they would understand that my tears are the most meager of offerings; it is a wonder I don't cut out my heart and offer it, purple and pulsing, up to the heavens.  Instead, I weep, I grieve, I love, and I live.  I don't buy that Nina would have "wanted" me to do this, but I do understand that this is the way life is.  Time keeps moving forward.  The seconds keep ticking by, and we can't freeze it or go back no matter how badly we wish to.  Forward.  Forward.  It's not cruel, it's not fair, it just is.  The special and the meaning are things that we wring from life with our scratched and calloused hands because we are strong, we are loving, and we are human.