Scabs

November 1, 2013

I was doing okay. I was mostly sleeping through the night. And when I was awake, it wasn’t because I was sobbing so hard that it was difficult to breathe. I was finding that the earth was beneath me, where it belonged. I could let my grief sit in the chair beside me. I was sad, but I was okay. Until Wednesday night. Wednesday night, the scab over my heart was ripped off.

Rose Kennedy said that time doesn’t heal, but it does allow the wounds to scar over. This is why the wounds don’t heal. They scab over, but then the scab gets torn and needs to regrow. Over. And over. And over. I know the scar will eventually form, but I’m still in the scab stage.

And now I’m back to the crazy side of my brain taking over at night. The part that says Sofia’s death was my fault. The part that asks me why I didn’t insist that her birth was taking too long. The part that refuses to listen to the rational side of my brain.

I just want it to be Wednesday. I want to know what the autopsy said. I want to know that it said that we don’t know what happened. That we’ll never know what happened. I want that meeting to be done and over with so that the scar over my heart can start to regrow.

P.S. I have a list of roles that I want to play someday. When I’m old enough. One of them is Katisha in Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado. “Hearts do not break. / They sting and ache / for old love’s sake / but do not die.”

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