I went to the Walk to Remember. No, I guess I went to the periphery of the Walk to Remember. I had expected this to be a very quiet, reserved event. I expected a lot of women on their own, maybe a handful of couples. I expected a lot of dark sunglasses and people keeping to themselves, alone and private in their mourning.
What I found were a lot of couples, happily talking to one another sans dark sunglasses, their children running around with joyful laughter. There were large families of supporters wearing coordinating t-shirts. One huge family all wore white shirts with tiny blue footprints on the back and text saying something to the extent of “We will never forget you.”
I found friendship, fanfare and laughter. I did not find the quiet opportunity to mourn the loss of my baby.
The people who brought children made me so angry. Not all of us have happy children to go home to. Some of us only have two measly ultrasound pictures of a baby the size of a lentil that never made it home. How dare they bring their fertility to a ceremony honoring dead babies.
The people who brought a fleet of family members all clad in matching t-shirts of support made me jealous. Where is all my fucking support? Where is my t-shirt wearing troop? Oh wait, the only people who remember my baby are a handful of friends who live in other states. My parents don’t speak of my baby, let alone come to a ceremony for it. Our friends in town all have children of their own and don’t acknowledge our loss.
The women with their husbands made me so sad. Let me be clear, the Professor offered to come along. He said he would happily be there to support me. I nonchalantly told him that was not necessary. I was fine to go this one alone. I said this not because I was happy to be alone, but because I’m so fucking embarrassed to still cry about this in front of him.
I feel so inept: here I am, a grown woman who can’t make it past the death of a 7 week old embryo. I’m on fucking Prozac and in therapy because of this. Why can’t I just move on? He has. He does not wake every morning to a jolt, realizing he is no longer pregnant. He does not tear the day off the calendar every morning and shudder at how close we are getting to January 3 – our due date. Why can’t I just forget?
I circled the group of “remembering” people four creepy times and could not bring myself to join them. I was the lone solo woman in dark glasses wrapped in an oversized sweater despite the 70 degree temperature. I went back to my car and went to the grocery store instead.