It creeps up, taps me on the shoulder, and fells me in one quick and easy little touch.
I miss him so much. I just started sobbing, the kind of geyser-like sobs that emerge seemingly out of nowhere. It crept up and bowled me over. I want him here. Otis. I want that head full of hair to nuzzle my nose into, I want to feel his soft baby skin, I want to hear him cry and look into his eyes. I want to know my son as a ten month old child, not as a ten month old memory.
My stepsister is an aspiring writer. She's had several novel excerpts and short stories published in some journals and magazines, and has "won" contests or become a finalist, or whatever it is that aspiring writers enter themselves in.
Today she posted a link, on her FB page, to a short story she has written and is in an online magazine.
I clicked through. I don't always, I often mean to, but then forget.
This story was about a couple who lose their baby 20 weeks into the pregnancy, due to an incompetent cervix.
And it angered me that she had written it.
She's had two first trimester losses, so she is not immune to the grief, I know. But I read through her story searching for flaws, thinking "How dare she..."
I know this isn't "right," for me to feel this way. Of course she has every right to write about whatever she wants. And there are plenty of authors out there who write about things they haven't personally experienced. And Otis didn't die due to my having an incompetent cervix, and he didn't die at 20 weeks. And my husband's name isn't Mitch, like the husband in the story. And our experience is not the one she wrote about.
And yet I still feel sort of betrayed. Because she and I don't talk about Otis often, she doesn't ask, we haven't ever been super close and the last year has been no different in that regard...it just feels odd. But who knows, maybe she based her character on a friend who suffered a loss like the one she wrote about. Maybe she didn't even think of me or of Otis at all while writing that story.
And maybe that was what triggered the sudden eruption of grief. Maybe. Who knows. It doesn't even matter. I just miss him. So fucking much. I want to go smash something right now. I haven't had this urge to smash since maybe January. I've got a basement full of old dishes for this explicit purpose, but I worry that I'd hurt myself or I'd start and be unable to stop, and then neighbors would start coming home from work and I'd be "that woman" in her garage, smashing dishes and screaming and crying and nobody would know what to do with me. And I don't think that violently smashing dishes is allowed on my "limited activity" restriction either.