Memories are funny things. The way I remember particular stories of grief don't always match up with the way my husband remembers them. The way we remember stories in our past often would not line up with a live video taken at the time it happened. So my retellings are the way I remember them. My stories take on the emotions as I feel them over and over again, deep in my soul. Here's my story - the way I remember it.
We decided we were finished with infertility treatments. I took Clomid, the medication I not-so-lovingly referred to as Satan. It made me feel crazy; my hormones were out of whack... I cried. I screamed. I felt lost inside my own mind, my own heart, my own body... Everything and everyone made me angry, then I'd drown in a sea of guilt for being angry. We decided we were finished with infertility treatments. My body felt wrecked and I was tired of living in the aftermath. I didn't like the way I felt when I took the medicine. It was supposed to help me ovulate. I never ovulated. We decided we were done with infertility treatments. We kept my older son's crib for several years. It was dismantled, left in a hopeful corner of the basement. Over the years, it began collecting dust, just as my dreams had done. I decided to on a mission trip to Zambia, so I was trying all sorts of things to raise funding. A trip to Zambia is, after all, not inexpensive. I created websites for friends and coworkers, I sold raffle tickets, did a Zumbathon. One day, a friend asked me if I'd consider selling the crib. We decided we were done with infertility treatments. I talked it over with my husband. I don't remember the discussion. We decided that, since we were done with infertility treatments, we would sell the crib. My husband pulled it up from the basement. He left to go somewhere (where? I don't even remember), and I grabbed some furniture polish and rags. And I cleaned the crib. I saw the toothmarks where my son had decided to make the railing a teething tool before I bought protective covers. I remembered the time we had to lower the crib because he'd learned to stand in it. I recalled the sweet bedding and stuffed animals and soft blankets that had filled it. And at the same time, I mourned the child who would never lay in that crib. I mourned the child I'd never tenderly lay down in it, praying she wouldn't wake up when her head touched the mattress. I mourned the glances between the rails I'd never sneak at another baby. I mourned the fact that I had no need to buy new beddings or hang a new mobile or fill it with new toys. I mourned the silence where no lullabies would fill the air. I mourned the loss of sleepless nights, sweeping in to snuggle one more time. Little pieces of memory. Little pieces of mourning. Bit by broken bit, I found myself simultaneously awash in love and grief. With each spray of the polish and each wipe of the rag, I was creating a mosaic of grief. My friend came to my house later that afternoon. She wrote me a check, and she knew it was hard for me to sell the crib. She knew it held memories. She knew it was a source of sorrow. With a hug, she whispered that she was grateful and that it would have a wonderful home. I told her I was grateful that this crib would have a good new home too. I almost meant it. My kind and empathetic friend left my house. Alone, I crumpled to the floor. I sold the crib. I was alone. The dream was broken. It felt final. It felt finished. I let her leave with a piece of me. We decided we were done with infertility treatments. We decided to sell the crib. Who would decide what to do with me? by Dallas Photo by insung yoon on Unsplash
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