My final doctor checkup went as well as could be expected. Physically, I am stellar. My body, it seems, was made to bear children. Recovery was a snap, as had been my pregnancy and delivery experiences. Even though I like to grouse about the fact I am a different shape now than I used to be, or that I had to buy some new jeans to wear because the old ones don’t fit the same, the fact remains that — apparently — my body is a baby-making machine.
My mind, however…
To all outward appearances, I am coping with Michael’s death amazingly well. People tell me regularly how I am doing so great… The truth of it is, I’m not. My doctor’s final assessment is that I have passed the ‘okay’ threshold for grief struggle and I am becoming weighed down by my grief — and she’s right. I can feel it getting the better of me, and it’s putting strain on my marriage, my work, and my life.
I recognize that I have an inability to re-focus myself when I feel that black hole spiraling up, especially when other things in my life are not harmonious (which is the case right now. Don’t even get me started on farm equipment… Or the many who prefer to act like the last nine months me never existed, like my son never existed…). I tend to be a broken record: hashing over details, berating myself, worrying, and being unable to see the good all around me. Like most artistic personalities, when life is good it’s really good, but when life is bad, it’s blacker than the most terrible, darkness imaginable… It can get quite ugly, and even drowning myself between the notes of my music barely helps.
So this week I’ve been taking steps to minimize my struggle. Making sure I’m eating right. Taking supplements to help balance things out. So far, it appears to be working. I am still saddened by thoughts of my son, or thoughts of what I’ve lost (motherhood), but I’m not being eaten alive by the darkness.
And that’s something.