She has been gone 31 agonizing days. 744 endless hours. And in almost every way I’m a painfully reminded of her absence with every breath I take. But I have been having a very difficult time letting go of the idea that I’m no longer pregnant.
I still sleep on my left side curled into my pregnancy pillow. I still mindlessly touch my belly. I still order decaf coffee at starbucks. I still haven’t eaten sushi. I still haven’t taken a drink.
During my pregnancy I had two very distinct cravings.
The first, was chicken wings. It was strange, as I HATE chicken wings. In fact before I was pregnant I had only ever eaten one. But I wanted them constantly from the time I was about 7 weeks pregnant.
The second, was beer. I longed for just a taste. I never gave into the craving once. I did however have some of my dads non-alcoholic beer at christmas, but it just didn’t do it for me. I wanted the real stuff. The good stuff. The kind where the froth coated the inside of your mouth; strong, and dark with bubbles that tickled your throat on the way down. I made jokes constantly about how when the baby finally came I didn’t want a bouquet of flowers at the hospital, I wanted a half case of Jockey Club.
It’s 9pm on March 16th and I’m sitting on my couch wearing my green skirt and I have my hair done and a full face of makeup for the first time in months. Tonight, I plan on taking a big step forward for myself. I am going to go out tonight to a friends house and try to celebrate St Patrick’s Day. I’m terrified. It’s low key, just a few people. But I haven’t been around a group of people since the funeral. I’m anxious. I’m nervous. And so incredibly scared that the big elephant in the room is going to sit on my chest and crush me. But I need to do it. If only for half an hour so I can prove to myself that I can survive it. That I can be around people again and function as a member of society.
And I’m going to have a drink.
245 days. That’s how long it has been since I last had a drink. It was a Molson Canadian. It was Saturday July 14th at a roller derby bout. I found out the next morning that I was pregnant with Everlee.
Overcoming a hurdle. A first step to accepting that life has really moved on from my pregnancy and my body is my own again. I have many firsts ahead of me as I accept this new reality. Each one will be exhausting, like today has been. I’ve been agonizing over this all day. And I feel incredibly guilty already. I feel like I’m betraying her somehow by accepting that she’s no longer physically a part of my body.
I don’t know that I’ll ever get over that feeling – The guilt. The overwhelming all consuming guilt I feel every time I smile, or laugh, or even start to feel good about something. I feel like I’m betraying her memory, betraying my baby. I know, she would want me to be happy, but maybe I don’t want to be? Maybe I don’t want to accept the inevitable truth. I’m not pregnant.