On the first day I Delivered a Dead Baby.
In the first week I wept and retreated to my cocoon. Somehow, I knew I would survive.
In the second week I retreated to the beach. The loss seemed so close, and so far away.
In the third week I kept busy with appointments. Numbness and grief, numbness and grief.
In the fourth week I crumbled. Depression and anxiety set in. I didn’t want to get out of bed, let alone figure out how to survive. We also watched a comedy and laughed harder than we’d laughed in months.
In the fifth week I became consumed by replaying events over and over in my mind.
In the sixth week I found out horrible news that had nothing to do with Luke’s death—and everything to do with it.
In the seventh week I began making plans for the future, trying to keep the fear and uncertainty at bay.
In the eighth week I learned some of those plans may never come to fruition. It felt like things crumbling all over again.
Today, I begin my reentry into “normal” life. Trying to focus on what’s right in front of me. Keep one foot in front of the other. Just keep living. Surviving.