Before I begin, I would like to say, that if you have not stopped by since before last Monday, please read here and here before you continue. Trust me, today's content is a bit heavy and you'll want to have some background before you jump right in.
In the days following the D&C, I received an unbelievable out pour of love and support from people here in Germany. The first day or two I holed myself up in the apartment. I gladly welcomed any friends that wished to stop by, but I was not ready to leave our home.
It was my cocoon if you will; my safe zone. When I was home, I was okay. I felt a little bit stronger. A little bit more hopeful. It helped that we were getting ready to fly home just a few days later, so I had something positive to focus on, something to prepare for; something that helped keep my mind off of things.
But even that had an element of apprehension within it. I dreaded going home and seeing everyone because I struggled to readjust my ideas and expectations for the trip. As much as I wanted, needed, to see my family, I desperately wanted to escape; to fly away with Luis somewhere where no one knew our story or our current situation.
For the three months prior, I had been imagining going home for the first time since I was pregnant. I could see the joy on my family's face the first time they saw my little belly, which was finally starting to poke a little bit.
I pictured myself sitting with one of my best friends, due a week before I would have been, and dreaming of our future with these new little creations, wishing that we lived closer so that they could, of course, be the best of friends.
I could feel the energy and excitement of being home. I had created a fantasy in my mind of all that our trip would hold, and suddenly it was ripped from me, and what was left to replace it was heartache and fears.
Now instead of a life, there was a death. Instead of hopes and dreams, there was a new reality.
The first time I left the house was a couple days after the procedure. I don't remember why I decided to go out, maybe I was going to church. I don't know exactly; but I do remember first having to drop Luis off at training.
Getting ready, leaving the house, I was fine. But then suddenly, somewhere along the drive, I began to feel anxious, unprotected. I no longer felt so strong.
I could feel the tears fighting their way out. I was struck with the fear of having to see people, in public, outside of the comfort of our home. The idea of coming in contact with people who knew what we just went through overwhelmed me.
I braced myself for the awkward
conversations, for the comments, that while said with the best intentions, perhaps weren't the most sensitive. Even worse were the awkward silences, when I knew that
they knew what happened but they didn't want to say anything, or didn't know what to say exactly (which is completely understandable by the way...there's really nothing you can say)
so they pretended like everything was okay but the sympathy was written
all over their faces.
It was in those moments I wanted to scream.
The flight home was hard. Emotionally draining. There were moms with new babies all around me. On one of our flights, the girl in front of me struck up a conversation with the woman next to her, telling her, very excitedly and with much detail, all about her trip to see her sister, who, wouldn't you know it, just had a baby.
I am so grateful to have a husband who also happened to hear this conversation, and knowing I had as well, immediately reached over, took hold of my hand, and squeezed--hard--as if to say, "I know sweetheart, I know. I feel it too. But it's all going to be okay. We'll get through this."
Surprisingly, despite the constant reminders throughout the trip, I didn't shed a tear. That is until they took my hummus away. Yes. You read that correctly. I cried when they took my hummus away.
Despite the dificulty of the situation, looking back on it, it is kind of a funny story...more on that in tomorrow's post though. :)