I am sobbing; my grief has become such a big part of who I am that I’m not even sure what’s left of me. This morning I dreamed about my little sister, who we lost in 1996 from complications from a bone marrow transplant (she had myelodysplastic syndrome). She was a month shy of her fifteenth birthday. It’s been so long that the memories I have of her could belong to a completely different person.
The last time Meg visited me in my dreams was the night between the two days of my D&E pregnancy termination. They had stopped Molly’s heart the first day. In that dream, Meg appeared as a young child, clad in red footsie pajamas. This morning she was all grown up as if she’d never left me. We were hanging out at the beach, having fun. The way things were supposed to be; the way things never were.
It was good to just have a friend. I don’t remember the last time I have had fun.
My body feels too narrow, like my skin could burst open any minute spilling sorrow on the crisp white sheets. My sadness makes my friends uncomfortable and I get the unmistakable feeling that they’d rather run from me than spend another awkward moment in my presence. If I have a healthy baby will the world take me back?
No, I imagine it wouldn’t.