Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of the day I went to the doctor and got the results of the blood test that confirmed I lost our baby. I had known that news was coming but for some reason it was still a surprise when my doctor told me the hormone had dropped. I think she was nearly as disappointed as I was. I called and called Kevin who was stuck in a meeting and had no idea what was going on. Finally, I walked over to his building and camped out on the cold, stone benches and waited for him to call me back.
I sat there so long that a woman who had noticed me on her first coffee break approached me when she came down a second time and asked if I was alright. Our friend Chris actually passed me on his way to work. He did not notice me and I did not say anything to draw his attention. I couldn’t have faked a normal conversation and it would have been unfair to burden him with that kind of strain.
Eventually, I realized I couldn’t stay there anymore. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it if that nice lady came up to me again. I told Kevin’s voicemail that I was going home. Shortly after that he was able to call me back and I was wandering around aimlessly in The Bay. I have no idea what I was doing in there. I was completely on autopilot. We met outside on Bay Street and went home together. It was a very sad day.
Yesterday was just an average day. I went to work. I got a flu shot. I laughed with friends. Some after-work plans fell through and weekend plans were arranged. I thought about the significance of the day, but I did not dwell on it. I did not cry or feel any more or less depressed than usual. But after one year I still did not feel any better about it. I’ve been waiting for the day to come when I wake up and say to myself, "There. I am finally over this." More and more, however, I think this is not something a person can ever get over. It’s such a lie that time heals all wounds.