An echo of a familiar feeling as I woke up this morning. I was completely worn out, more tired than when I’d gone to bed. It took the walk from my bed to my couch to bring back the tears. I must have had some faith left in righteousness, because as scared as I am for us, I simply did not believe, could not think, that Meg and D would lose their daughter.

I want so desperately for it not to be true, but my desires are futile, ridiculous even.

I had no idea that your lives, the lives of the bloggers I read and my commenters, had become so real. I’ve become friends with one of you in person, corresponded directly via email and instant chatted with others. I knew that you’ve all been among my greatest supports since I began blogging. I knew I rely on you, your kind words and encouragement almost every day. I knew that I try, sometimes clumsily, to return the favor. I didn’t think you weren’t “real,” whatever that means. Yet I did feel a little sheepish talking to non-bloggers about my online friends. Saying to a camp-crazy friend in offline life, “You won’t believe what happened to a friend of mine who sent her son to this camp her husband was so excited about….” and then relating a story I’d read online. Another online friend brought us reassuring news about someone we’d known in real life, but lost touch because he was in a part of the world or was just of an age where communication technologies aren’t so reliable. Fun stuff. Who’d have thought my day-to-day life and my screen life could become so enmeshed?

But I didn’t know, didn’t realize just how much I care about all of you until grief struck again. Or maybe that’s wrong. I think I did know. I certainly felt the parallels for Meg and I – the cerclage, the waiting, the horrible early 20s weeks of pregnancy. I also felt the differences – I lost Natan and had a miscarriage. She’d lost baby girl twins and another baby girl before that. Along with early losses. But everything was looking so good for her this time. I couldn’t even think this baby girl wouldn’t come home to them. It seemed more possible that my baby boy wouldn’t, because my G-d, how could her losses keep compounding? They could because there is no fairness, there is no righteousness as I want to understand it. I wanted to think that together we could get past our losses, and finally end up on the other side. That maybe someday our baby boy and baby girl would meet, and play together while we sat and watched, relieved that fortune had finally smiled upon us.

If our baby boy comes home with us, I will feel more than ever the randomness. I’ll be grateful and happy, and thank the arbitrary statistical models because I can’t discern any divine order to this.

I will miss Meg and D’s baby girl, their survivorgirl and para-trooper, forever.

9 responses to “Tears

  1. Yes. As I said in my post, after I got over the shock of Meg’s loss, my next reaction was to look at my own blessings, my own three living children, and wonder, “why me?” How did I get so lucky? Why do I get three living children, and she has none? Because I know that it has nothing to do with my worthiness. I almost feel something akin to “survivor’s guilt”- if that makes any sense.

    The randomness, the unfairness… it’s hard to know what to do with any of it.

    I’ll never forget Meg, and all of her lost little ones. I vow to remember, because it is the only thing I know I can do for her.

  2. You know, I am not crying, but I am walking around on the verge of it. I can’t get over how busy and self-satisfied I was yesterday with everything I was accomplishing before I found out. So pointless.
    A while ago I made a list of what 2007 had to do to not make me want to strike it from existence altogether. Safe passage for the para-trouper was certainly on the list. This is a shit year.

  3. I not only really liked Meg, I also identified wiht her. I felt that, in many ways, we had similar outlooks on life, pregnancy, babies. As Meg had one good doctor’s appointment after another, I became convinced that the para-trooper would make it. But I didn’t truly realize how complacent I’d become about her pregnancy until I read, unable to believe my eyes, that it was over.

  4. This was a good post, B. I can’t tell you how horrible I have felt since reading about Meg. And then I feel selfish. *I* dare feel horrible? But it is all so unfair, and proof there is no justtice, as if we needed more reminders.

    I too have felt sheepish when talking to people IRL about people online. The friendship may be just words on screen, but the heartache I feel all too real life.

  5. Thanks Hon. Yeah, it is pretty bizarre isn’t it? We are words on a screen and real people too.

    So hard to believe…I’m exhausted beyond words. Not physically, more emotional? Just promise you’ll take care of yourself and your babe. As sad as this is, it isn’t happening to you right now and you really do need to get rest and eat and keep yourself going, k?

    I just don’t want you to feel more afraid for yourself and your pregnancy because of Meg. You are different people with different medical histories.


  6. something about the loss of Meg and D’s baby daughter really blew my legs out from under me, too…blew out what last vestiges i had of a belief that things are usually fair, or that there is some superstructure of fairness “out there” that you and i and the rest of us are clawing our way back to. reading her news, i felt horrified, angry, despairing, embarrassed with riches, and like my own petty sense of entitlement has been stripped naked to the light of day. there really isn’t any justice we’re missing out on, clearly. not if this can happen to her and to the wee Paratrooper.

    and i barely “know” her, even out here, have only clicked over from your comments or Niobe’s a few times recently, because something she said clicked with me or touched me.

    but i am heartbroken for her, because even carrying all that realization above is nearly crushing. to have to be at the centre of it? oh god. too much.

  7. I too have “survivor’s guilt”. It also made me realize as I posted on my blog earlier that luck is “relative”. Before I started blogging, there is no way I would ever have considered myself blessed or lucky. Now I can’t help thinking that I am and that I don’t deserve it. I want so much for those who have suffered losses to have a successful pregnancy or whatever their plan is. Every time it doesn’t happen it just reminds me of how fickle and random the world is. I too shared the news with other IRLs. It seems more and more I can relate only with other bloggers. I’m so very sorry for Meg. It’s just not right, no it isn’t.

  8. I was wrecked by the news when I read it yesterday, too.

    I am fairly new to blogging and have a quiet little site, in terms of comments. Sometimes I feel sort of … other. Like I don’t quite fit in anywhere on the established map. I feel shy about leaving comments on many of the sites I read, because I fear it would easy for others to look at my situation and say, “Why are YOU weighing in? You call THAT a history of loss? Suck it, honey!”

    Given Meg’s particularly devastating pregnancy history, I would have understood if she read my story and laughed at my belly aching. But she was never anything but supportive and sympathetic and kind. This truly amazed me. There she was struggling to find hope and go on with the pregnancy even though she had so many fears and bad memories from what happened before. And she still managed to give warmth and kindness to others despite her own problems. That’s just amazing to me.

    I have cried for Meg, her husband, and their lost girl. I just wish my crying could DO something. I hate that rooting for her before the loss and grieving for her afterwards doesn’t help Meg. I know it’s a cliche, but I do wish there was something I could do to help.

  9. Yes to all of this. Monica, you’re so right. I felt so weird being out in the world Monday and Tuesday, having a ridiculous (and bad) meeting with one of my advisers. She was making an enormously big deal of my pregnancy and I wanted to scream.

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