Letters for the Broken (Part III)

Dear Broken Ones,

“Mama said that there’ll be days like this, there’ll be days like this my mama said.” Every time I think back to this dark time, this song plays in my head. Why? Because it’s so untrue. Mama never told me about these days. Hell, no one tells you “There’ll be days like this.” There’s not a single person that prepares you for situations such as these.

This next letter is dedicated to all my broken souls. All the women, and some men, who have gone through the loss of a child. To the broken-hearted that have been so beaten down, they have forgotten how to be “normal”. To the ones who are Defeated and stripped of your happiness. The ones who have felt the joy vanish from every last cell of your body.

This is for my broken ones.

I felt it, I felt the wave of anger and misery cover my entire body as soon as we got home from the surgery. I hated him, I hated my husband and hated myself even more. We walked in the front door and looked around at, “our home” that felt like a prison. Jarrett was saying something to me as I walked down the hall to our bedroom, but it was just mumbling that I heard. The hallway walls were lined with our smiling faces and happy memories and I could have smashed them all, if I had the energy. I entered the bedroom, sat on the bed and starred at the wall. I was numb. Jarrett walked into the doorway of the bedroom, “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” I crawled into bed and pulled the covers to my chin, “No, I’m okay.” He walked in and kissed my forehead, “I love you. Do you want me to lay beside you?” I didn’t even hesitate to answer, “No, I said I was fine.” He rubbed his hand over my shoulder to comfort me and I instantly pulled away. His touch was cold to me and I felt my body tense up. I had no feelings for him, I just wanted him to go away. He stood up and left the room and I returned to numbness, starring at a spot on the wall so hard until everything in my peripheral faded and disappeared. “It’s just a dream, I’ll wake up. It’s just a dream, I’ll be awake soon.” I whispered over and over to myself before drifting off to sleep.

My eyes slowly opened the next morning and got an instant flashback of waking after surgery. It was not a dream. I pulled myself out of bed and walked into the bathroom. I looked at the empty shell starring back at me in the mirror. I couldn’t escape my thoughts, so I let them talk. “You are a waste of fucking space. How do you even call yourself a wife? God, you are a real piece of shit.” My eyes were hollow and dark. I had no damn clue who I was looking at but couldn’t look away.

Days and weeks went by and I felt like things were starting to get on a pretty “normal” routine for me. Here, let me walk you through my average day: I woke up every morning and instantly felt an aching in my body. We were off to a good start because I was feeling something! I walked into the bathroom to “greet” the empty shell in the mirror and starred as it tore me apart with its vicious tongue before starting my day. I drove to work with the radio off and got lost in my mind full of depressing thoughts, “I could run my car off this bridge right now and make it all go away.” I walked around with the fakest fucking smile you could ever imagine at work. But I tell you, I could have won a damn Oscar with my acting. I ignored my husband’s text messages and phone calls most of the day because, hell, I really have nothing to say to him; I’m fine. I found quiet little places for my lunch breaks and sat alone with my thoughts because they were “comforting.” I got off work and drove home with those same thoughts as that morning. When Jarrett would get home, I did my best to ignore him or engage him with small talk, so it was just enough interaction for him to think everything was good. At night, I would drown the aching with whatever alcohol we had, scroll through Facebook and look at all the happy couples with their baby announcements and then I would go to sleep before Jarrett came to bed.

I had found a way to deal with my problems and it was by not talking about them. It was perfect

But, in reality, I was alone and miserable.

Pausing the story for just a second…

To my husband, my God, this is so hard because I have never said this to you.

Jarrett, I’m sorry.

I never considered how you might have felt during this time. I was so selfish. All the times I never wanted you to touch me, all the yelling and blaming I did to you. How the hell did you put up with that? You are the most patient and kindest person I know. You loved me so deeply, but I basically spit in your face.

The days I would lock myself in my office while you sat out in the hallway knocking on the door to make sure I was okay. The times I would cut you down to give myself some kind of feeling. I had to feel something! Anything! Even if that meant hurting you. You are my husband and I treated you like a piece of shit. I’m so sorry and I love you so much.

Three months…three long months.

I had been in misery and feeling sorry for myself.

It was time.

I grabbed a box of tissues and walked downstairs where Jarrett was sitting on the couch all alone. I sat down on the bottom step, looked over at him and I started to tear up, “I’m ready.”

He walked over and wrapped his arm around me as he sat down beside me.

I let go, I let it all go. We talked about our “Little One.” We cried and held each other for hours. I could feel the tension in my shoulders start to disappear and the aching was leaving my body. His touch was soothing, and his kiss was warm. I was coming back to life, because of him.

After a few weeks, things were starting to get brighter in the house and laughter was starting to fill the rooms again. The pictures in the hallway were starting to make me smile once more. Things were getting better, I was happy again. We were happy again.

Bojangles to-go and hand holding was how I remembered this day.

Jarrett left the house early and showed up with “breakfast in bed” for me. I wasn’t feeling very well, and he was so sweet trying to make me feel better. He laid everything out on the kitchen table and came to get me out of bed.

Jarrett wouldn’t find me in bed. Instead, he opened the bathroom door to find me on the floor crying. Confused, he bent down to see what was wrong. In my hand, I held a pregnancy test.

We were pregnant.