J is for Jolt (What it feels like to know it’s over)

The natural progression of matter is from order into chaos. Aromas born of a carefully crafted medley of herb, spice, and sustenance, for example, only reach our nostrils through the random dispersion of molecules into the air. Carefully architectured buildings crumble and fall as they are beaten to ruins by swells of salty water. Life moves towards decay, towards breaking into pieces that continue to degrade until their smallest form has been reached. It’s a slow, sad, bittersweet, and romantic progression.

Losing my babies were none of those things. Each time I learned the child I carried was gone, my world fell apart and the chasm between my existence and the natural disorder of life split even further. This isn’t one of those Greek tragedies in which you see death coming, in which heartbreak is cathartic and welcome even. No. Baby loss is a jolt to the system: a sudden, jarring impact, a psychological disturbance that causes loss of composure, as if you were hit hard by something looming and heavy^[1].

Even when I knew the possibility of death for Calvin, even while the tastes and smells of fear permeated my pregnancies with Rainbow and Gaelen, I hoped and dreamed and planned to take each of my babies home. And each time, the answer was a crushing No from which recover is slow and excruciating.

What about you, when you’ve lost somebody?

Whether it is through death, physical separation, or the end of relationship, how did it affect you? What did it feel it the moment you found out things were over?

¹References: Princeton WordNet, Mountain City Elementary.

This post is a part of a series called Unpacking Grief, which I began as part of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge.