28 January 2003 ~ I really don't know what to say...

There are tons of "tips" on what NOT to say to a person who's lost a baby. I think I have a few more to add...

* "Are you okay?" FUCK no, I'm not okay. I'm fucking devastated, and my whole fucking life sucks ass. And sure, I'm GOING to be okay, but that might take another fifteen years, for all I know. But, since you're standing there asking me if I'm okay, I've got to give you some kind of answer. And, chances are, you've run into me smack in the middle of a sidewalk, and there are people all around, and I'm supposed to give you the short, brief, comforting answer: "yeah, I'm fine." Anything else would be superfluous and would upset you.

* "How are you?" Similar to the above. What am I supposed to say? Well, I cry about every ten minutes, I have constant nightmares about being gang-raped with speculums (specula?) by large groups of strangers, I have no job, I'm not in school, I can't make love like a normal human being, none of my clothes fit me right, and every time I go to the bathroom, I freak the fuck out. Oh, and I hate my body, my emotions are so fucked I don't know which way is up, and I think I'm coming down with a cold. People ask me how I am, as if they want to hear these things, but they don't. I'm supposed to be a good little griever and say, "I'm okay."

* "I don't really know what to say." Then why the fuck do you bother emailing me? This is the writing tutor in me coming out, but aren't there alternatives to writing an email that essentially says nothing? Can't you just say you're sorry, that you love me, that you care, that you believe my baby is in heaven, that I can call you if I want to...? For crying out loud, have a little more confidence in what your words really do mean to me. I haven't had much of any human contact, except with Jake and his family, for over a month, and if you email me with the Superbowl scores, an anecdote about your significant other, a prayer, a cold remedy, or a WHATEVER, I'll be pleased. So many people act so embarrassed, shuffling toes around in the dirt, saying they don't know what to say. Look at it this way: I'm the one who ought to be utterly humiliated, not you. I'm the one who couldn't keep my own baby alive, and everybody knows it. I'm the one who can barely function outside these four walls. I'm a piece of wreckage; you're fine, and you don't need to be embarrassed.

* About the only WRONG things to say are things that are insincere (including "how are you?" and "are you okay," because nobody TRULY wants answers to those questions), and dead baby jokes.

* * * * * * * * * * *

My mom and Penny were here for the weekend. It was good to forget everything for a little while. We played a game of Truth or Dare with Jake; I took them to visit Seattle; I showed them the fish ladders at Tumwater Falls (my mother is excessively fascinated with salmon); I cooked them dinner... And then they left.

Jake and Penny kept commenting on all the stupid little traits my mom and I have in common. I know it's true; we're a couple of scatterbrained quasi-geniuses who always trip over something and fall into a gaping hole in the ground at exactly the moment we were about to proclaim something brilliant. I begin a brilliant tirade about the plight of the Norwayish people, and my mom goes the wrong way around a roundabout, nearly crashing the rental car, while discussing the evolutionary magic of northwest salmon. Jake and Penny, who, eerily, had plenty of their own in common, teased us mercilessly.

I wonder if the baby would have been a genius klutz, too...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Went to two AA meetings with Jake last night. He's not required to go to them yet; he's just sucking up to his probation officer. I find them morbidly fascinating. The coffee's free. What the fuck ever. I'd rather listen to the tales of a bunch of ex-drunks than think about my own life. Some of it is actually fairly inspirational, though most of the inspirational aspect of it has more to do with the fact that everybody's so damned vague. Man, if I was an alcoholic, I'd get up there and describe the best and the worst of it in disgusting details. Being an incurable klutz instead of a recovering alcoholic, I instead dumped a cup of coffee all over the table. They all looked at me so compassionately. Heh.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Dreamed last night that I died. I killed myself or something. And Jake buried me in this wet, grassy field. He looked sad, but I knew he'd be okay. So I lay there, in this soggy sod, staring at roots of grass, watching the rain and the clouds, waiting to go to heaven. But nothing happened. I was dead, but I couldn't die. I was buried, but I could see the rain. Everything was cold and wet, and I couldn't see my baby. And, forever, I was going to be there, turning into worm food, an eternity away from Jake, and two eternities away from the baby.

I wonder where she is now.

I have to go throw something, or set something on fire, or something...

~Helena*