For months after I lost Molly, I drifted the streets of Olympia, WA, letting the rain mix with the salty tears that never seemed to stop. I was proud; I challenged this small town with my presence and my grief, surely an abomination. I carried my heart in the darkness of my eyes. They changed my medication when I said that I was not sleeping and I developed serotonin syndrome. Fever-wracked and shaking, I met the peoples’ stares with the defiance of a woman who had lost everything and still refused to die.
My friends stopped calling, not knowing what to do with me. Slowly I became invisible. When I go out now, I look down at the sidewalk.
I thought I understood social isolation. I’ve never been very good with people, with crowds–in my twenties, I went through a nasty bout of agoraphobia that at the time was all-consuming and terrifying to reverse.
Infertility and recurrent pregnancy loss are another level, though. I live my life scared to even see any friend that could possibly announce a blissfully innocent pregnancy, although as I approach middle-age, that scenario is less and less likely. I cry if I stare too long at a baby that will never be mine. I cringe when my friends start to talk about their kids, knowing that I might never experience what is so easy for almost everyone else I know. I go to therapy every week and try to talk about anything other than the horrible, unshakable rage and sorrow I wear strapped to my back every fucking day and the persistent belief that the reason my babies die is because I’m a crazy bitch that’s unfit to have a child.
My days are quiet and I spend them in solitude.