I Feel It All

A friend died this week. I won't go on and pretend she was close to me--but she was a lovely, kind person, and I knew her and her husband through several areas of my life. Her son was a few years behind me in school--though, judging by what I knew of him, lightyears ahead of me in intelligence.

Fucking cancer. Fuck.

I saw her a few weeks ago, sitting in her car in the parking lot of our Co-op grocery store. I chatted briefly with her husband inside. I'd see them around town, or at church here and there, and I knew of her illness for awhile. I never had the courage to come right out and ask how she was feeling, but I always made it a point to tell her she looked great and I meant it.

One afternoon in the spring I passed them as they enjoyed a sunny day on the patio of my favorite coffee house. We exchanged hellos and a little talk, and they said how sorry they were for our loss, for Calla. I thanked them in my weird, stumbling way and moved on.

I guess I don't have much of a point to this tale, except that I feel so sad for them. It's as though I can only connect to others through grief anymore, and that sucks. Yep, I'm genuinely happy when things go well or perfectly or even as planned for everyone else. But that happiness is, and always will be tinged with hints of sadness. For us.

But the sadness of others, I feel it. The despair, the sorrow, the unfairness of it all. I get it. Yes, we all grieve differently, and for different things, and I won't pretend that my grief for a dead baby is the same as someone mourning his wife or his mother. But I do get it.

And the crazy thing about it is, I almost feel like it's a gift. I want to wrap my heart and arms around anyone who's feeling this pain, this sadness, help soak it up and live it with them. I couldn't have done that before Calla died. I didn't get it then.

This is, by no means, a wonderful thing. But it is a thing. It just is what it is. I am so saddened for these kind people, for her friends and family, her sons and husband. I'm sad I won't see her smile at the Co-op, on the street, at church. I won't hear her sing again. But I am most sad for her family who has to keep on living every day without her.

Love to you, L., and P. and your sons. Love and peace to you.

Running Away, and It's Not a Reminder

Or: Trying to Tie Together Two Seemingly Different Topics with One Ambiguous Post Title

Ever since I got the clearance from the Dr. to run, I've been trying to get my old body back. No, not the REALLY old, rather large one. The post-college, professional, healthy, (sorta) clean-living one. The one that's run two marathons, taught millions of fitness classes, twisted itself into yoga-inspired pretzels.

It's gonna be a long road. That 20's metabolism has gone kerflooey, making it much harder to whip myself back into shape. Throw in a healthy dose of sobbing, sporadic eating, and nightly red wine and a fitness plan is right out the window.

That's not to say I've not been trying. Actually, I'm NOT trying. It's sheer survival instinct that puts one foot in front of the other. Fear of my brain exploding out my ears really puts a spring in my running step. Plainly: if I don't exercise my body, my brain will take over and right now, that's not a great game plan.

Running, yoga; these have for so long been a part of my life, I no longer have to think about HOW to do them. Sure, it's advisable to be mindful during yoga practice. But for now? I can let my body remember where to go, how to move so I can turn my brain right off. Or let it wander. I try to stay away from the complete sadness, and try to focus on the happier aspects of being pregnant with Calla. I've got a solid 8 months on which to focus--8 months minus one day. My body, the muscles, take over the thinking during practice. It's quite freeing.

Same thing with running. I couldn't wait to get out of the house to run, but was nervous about how crappy I knew I'd feel. Amazingly? My body simply took over. Just go, it says. Pace be damned, I can just go, and blissfully feel something other than the physical ache of my empty arms. It's like therapy without the talking.


So what about this reminder thingy? On a complete non-sequitur, many people have expressed their sadness and condolences, but have not wanted to make me upset. Their kindness is genuine and sincere, and it touches my heart. But how can I say, without sounding like a complete jerk, that by saying they're sorry, it's not reminding me? Because I am ALWAYS. THINKING. ABOUT. MY. DEAD. BABY. And it actually--perversely?--gives me comfort to know others are thinking of her, too. As they say, you're only truly gone if you are forgotten.

And, son of a gun, I just won't ever forget.