The Lowest Moment
By Brenna Thibault
B asked whether I might like to accompany him on a few errands. His tone was casual — but I could see in his eyes that he knew what he was asking of me. To dress in clothing more structured than pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, to get in the car and leave our house, to willingly go somewhere I might encounter people, actual PEOPLE. This was asking a lot. I considered claiming agoraphobia and becoming homebound for the rest of my days—stranger things have happened, right? Then my reliable guilt mechanism kicked in: how unfair was it of me to expect B to do all the living for both of us? Putting our new house together, running all of the annoying errands and taking care of every little task by himself...I agreed to the outing.
Getting Dressed
Getting dressed was never dangerous before. Sure, I’ve had my bad hair days and times when I couldn’t put together an outfit that clicked, but never before has looking in the mirror induced stomach-clenching anguish—it’s enough to send me back to bed, when it took mighty resolve to drag myself from the embrace of the warm, dark covers in the first place. Getting dressed now involves binding my chest with two long ace bandages wrapped around multiple times and secured with metal fasteners, then squeezing a too-tight sports bra over top of that, effectively squelching the life (and milk) out of my heavy, swollen breasts. It’s very much like having on a corset, I imagine—hard to take in a full breath — and when I unwrap myself for a shower, I can see where the binding has imprinted deep grooves into my skin. It’s painful enough to bring tears to my eyes, but necessary. My milk has come in, and the tight binding is the only way to discourage it from sticking around. I see milky drops seeping through the bandages, and I feel such rage and sorrow that it nearly knocks me off my feet.I have no choice but to put on a maternity top, since there’s not a single piece of regular clothing that fits. Even B’s shirts stretch and pull over what’s left of my pregnancy belly. There’s no escaping what I look like, which is a very pregnant woman. There’s no escaping the reality, which is that I’m not. On some level, I recognize that I want to be at my worst right now, my weakest and ugliest and absolute worst, to echo the way my soul feelsMaybe I should cover all of the mirrors in the house. I am, after all, sitting shiva in my own way. I recall that mirrors are covered in a house of mourning to allow those grieving to focus on their lost loved ones rather than themselves. Seems like a good idea—believe me, there’s no one I’d rather focus on less at the moment than myself, and yet there’s no escaping me.
Leaving
My heart rate accelerates, my hands shake, I'm nauseated and quaky. I feel physical pain at the thought of leaving our house. I fear running into someone who doesn’t know that we lost the boys a week ago—someone who might look at my stomach and ask about due dates, about what names we’ve picked out, about nurseries and future plans. Somehow, I climb into the car.
Arrival
When we arrive at our destination, I carry myself inside the store on leaden feet, stifling the churning feeling in my chest and gut at the thought of seeing someone I know. I manage not to throw up. B grips my hand supportively. We make a few monumental purchases: dish towels, a soap dispenser, sponges. The entire store seems foreign and dangerous. I feel like a crazy person: jumpy, jittery and fearful of the shadowy monsters lurking in the aisles: cribs and changing tables, tiny onesies and stuffed bears. Is this what crystal meth feels like? Crack? Heroine? I’m panicked and trying not to show it. Somehow we make it through the red bulls-eye beacon of shopping without incident.We can’t find the dish drainer we need to fit our sink, though, so it’s next door to Bed, Bath & Beyond. Drainer: check. Our odyssey is almost complete, and I’m still in one piece.We move on to our final stop: Lowes, for face plates to cover the electrical outlets in the kitchen and den that our painter removed. No problem, I start to think—I may actually make it through this. The hardware store holds fewer instruments of torture capable of reducing me to a quivering mess: no strollers, no pacifiers, no diapers—we should be home free. We head for the electronics aisle, where we pause to debate the merits of bisque-colored face plates over white.
Then it happens. Disaster wears a Lowes apron. It appears in the guise of an old man in a plaid flannel shirt and battered jeans. His wrinkled face parts into a broad grin as he shuffles over to us, running one hand through his salt and pepper hair. My heart races. He chuckles and smiles. My heart stops. He points at my belly and asks jovially, “What’s going on in there? One baby, or maybe two?” An itching sensation explodes behind my eyes. My throat burns. I spin on my heels and fling myself down the aisle so that I don’t explode in front of him, shattered into little pieces.
Sweet guy—of course he means well. It’s the kind of question that a few weeks ago would have caused me to beam and say “Actually, it’s three!,” which would inevitably lead to “oh my goodness” and congratulations and comments on whether we knew what we were having ( “Yes, three boys!”) and then the conversations about raising three boys, and wow, weren’t we (lucky, brave, scared, excited…). Those innocent comments used to lift my heart with an unchecked joy at the thought of our family, our own “Team T-Bo” due to arrive within the next few months. Those are conversations I’ll never have again, and the pain is unreal. Now the looks, the questions—they’re unbearable.
Our first outing after the death of our boys? Not so easy.
Next stop: agoraphobia.
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Brenna Thibault shares her life with her husband Bruce and two big mutts, Sierra (the store manager) and Liam (the pot-smoking slacker with the beard). She is the mother of Adam, Joseph and Paul, born too early to this world on Sept. 25, 2008. She writes about infertility, child loss and occasionally something REALLY fun on her blog,
The Real Bean.
