Unequal Pieces by St. Elsewhere

 

Saw a thin crust on my stove today – remnants of a spill from the pot of boiling rice. I touched it. Brittle, it broke into tiny pieces af dried starch.

The other day I was looking at the red patch I have developed on the side of my tummy, a gift of the intense heat. Small curls of skin were coming off. I knew that eventually it would burn more but I could not help peel the tiny bits.

A crust and a layer of dying skin covers another part of me. It can neither be wiped off by a wet cloth nor does the ointment take the singe away. That crust comes from the blunt blow that life deals you at the death of a beloved baby.

Has it been that long?

Four months, and yet the grief is an attacking wave…never hitting at once but rolling and heaving at the coast and receding to get more water on its sway. When I came to know of her, I cried. But I did not still ‘get it’. Then I began to understand what just passed, and I used the time to invest into understand the anatomy of the situation that took her away. I did not cry. I was being wise about it, like I have dealt with most of my cycles.

Then I found some baby stuff. And I cried.

People finally left me alone. I cried.

I howled. It did not happen when I was told. It happened when I understood.

They say that time heals everything. I have let time bandage my stupidities of the teen years, and what I experienced, but there never has been a Nadir of this kind.

How much time will pass before I get it all? I do not know. By my third month, I was out and about in the outside world. It had to happen. I toughened the crusty heart and set foot in my office again.

Time passes without me doing anything about it…second by second, day by day and I have just passed the date she died four months ago.

Time now stays serrated. The years of trying; the day I came to know I was pregnant (the longest morning, I tell you); the pregnancy; her birth and death; the days passed before which I got told of her death; and the days after. Those aren’t the most uniform intervals you will ever see. But that is the life I have, having flowed over from a boiling pot, and having curled over from defending the vulnerable self.

They say that all people are equal, and some people are more equal than others. I would like to claim the same for Time. All days are equal, but some days are more equal than others. In a lifetime of random trials, some trials last longer than others even in the same span. I have never felt as lost in this journey in these past four months than the six years spent in conceiving her.

 

Author Bio:

St. Elsewhere blogs at My Lady of the Lantern – an account of the efforts undertaken to conceive her child. Conceive she did, on her own, in 2010 and lost her child at 3 days old – a baby girl who did not survive the outcomes of fetal distress. What was never meant to turn into a baby loss blog, became one and now the journey continues forth, trying to comprehend the passing away and living with a new miracle. St. Elsewhere and her spouse have struggled with a diagnosis of Unexplained Infertility and before the conception of the precious daughter, the former had already fiddled with patience, IUIs, IVF and medicated cycles for almost six years. 

 

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Comments

  1. Alyssa Carter says:

    Beautifully written! I am so sorry for your loss. At 16 months after the death of my Noel, I can honestly say I still have those days where the pot bubbles over and the tears flow freely. The pain does get better with the passing of time, but it will always hurt, and I will always have a hole in my heart. Thank you for sharing!

  2. St. Elsewhere says:

    Thank you, Alyssa.

    Very sorry about Noel.

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