On Friday night, Justin and I did our first socializing since Lydia died. We had our new friends, Renae and Scot, over for dinner and conversation. Renae and Scot lost their son at 36 weeks in September due to a cord accident.
Last night, I met a new friend, Jill, for dinner. Jill's son Collin was stillborn four years ago.
Tonight is our support group.
This weekend, we're having Caroline and her parents over for a playdate. Caroline goes to Ben's daycare. And she's a rainbow baby. She has twin brothers, Andrew and William, who came before her.
Christine, whose son was stillborn just 3 weeks ago, would like to meet up for a drink sometime soon, but I just have to figure out when I can fit that in.
Suddenly, looking at my calendar, I've got quite the social life.
And my plans are all with other people who have lost their babies.
That's not to mention the near-constant communication I'm in with Jen, or Cara, or Molly, or a few others.
These people are my lifelines.
I told my new therapist that I'm nuts. That I only want to be around people who have lost children. That I have a really hard time talking to my own friends. She asked why that is nuts. I said, well, for one, these friends would do anything for me. They would do anything they could to take away my pain. They didn't want my daughter to die any more than I did. But still? I have a really hard time talking to them. They get to tuck all of their children in at night; they have no idea what this feels like. Sometimes they say things that piss me off. Sometimes what they don't say pisses me off. But maybe I'm just sensitive, maybe I'm just pissed in general, and looking for places to direct that. Regardless, I feel like a really shitty friend. But I don't have it in me right now to be a good one. I just can't ask about what's going on in their lives right now. I can't hear about how normal their lives are. The normality of everyone else's lives is too much for me.
The therapist said I need to allow myself some grace.
I hope I don't feel this way forever. I hope there's a day when I can pick up the phone and chat with Kate again. Or that I can run across the street to Joanna's. Or head over to Ashley and Nick's for an evening of hanging out with some drinks and our kids.
But today is not that day.
So I surround myself with all these people who get my pain, who don't lead normal lives, who don't get to tuck in all their children every night. Who are muddling through the best they can, which sometimes is better than other times.