Sometimes It Just Hurts

Last weekend, I gave away a bunch of the books I had been carting around in my car, leaving them at the cabin in the woods where we had our mini respite weekend. It felt freeing, and there was zero crying involved.

I can't say the same for this past week.

We went to our favorite spot in Grafton, Vermont, and as we were leaving I had the thought that I could probably find a home for the rest of the things in my car that I'd been toting around... a few more books, the tub of blankets, a first aid kit, unopened.

After we'd checked out, I ran back inside to the front desk with my stuff.

"I have a weird question," I asked of the front desk lady, who was also talking with the manager.

"I have these things, baby blankets that are handmade, some baby books, some first aid/hygiene stuff, all never used... do you know anyone who could use them? Or an organization nearby that could use them?"

They looked at each other and said that they didn't know of anyone who'd recently had a baby, but then the front desk lady said,

"You know, I pass an early childhood/infant care HeadStart on my way in every day, they are always looking for things for the babies there. I could bring it there if that works for you?"

"Oh, that's perfect," I said. "I really appreciate it."

And then, and then.

The manager guy said, "How did you have this stuff with you?" Not in an interrogative sort of way, but in a curious sort of way.

I took a breath.

"Well, we tried to have a baby for 8 years, and it didn't work out, two years of adoption didn't work out, and we had a shower and everything because we were so hopeful, but now I have these things I keep in my car because I don't want them in the new house we moved to, and I've been looking for a good place for them to go where they'll be used, so... yeah." I did not cry.

He looked stricken. I said, "It's okay," not really meaning that the situation was okay but that I was okay with how things were now, and he said, "It's not, though. It's so not okay."

And then he hugged me. And the front desk lady teared up. And they both said it was a great thing to do; it was very nice of me. And I thanked them.

I kept my shit together until I exited the building, when my face just crumpled, and I started to cry as I walked down the granite stairs to the car, where Bryce was in the driver's seat, and I sobbed and sobbed and cried a particularly ugly cry since I was into my traditional school-break cold.

Bryce asked, "What's wrong?"

I wailed, "What do you think?"

I cried, and cried, and cried.

It felt like something inside me had cracked open and was gushing grief out my face.

Once I was calmer, Bryce said, "It's kind of like a bandaid, right? It hurts, it really hurts, but then it's gone and it was the right thing to do."

That's true. This hurt more I think because those blankets were hand made, they represented hours that several people put into hopes and warm thoughts towards our baby who didn't exist, who was a "yet" for so long and then became a "never." It was the last thing I'm giving away. All that I have left fits in a small tub that is actually in my "attic" closet. Most of them things I bought myself. All of them things I don't want to give away. I want some things to remain from these years, from this period of time filled with hope and despair.

It feels better now, now that it's gone and I've grieved it. I think guilt factors in, too. It wasn't just us that hoped and wished and dreamed. It wasn't just us that waited for someone who didn't appear before we couldn't do it any longer. Other people were invested, too. To let go of those things has a scent of finality that echoes back to those moments of packing up the nursery, of disassembling a dream and giving it away. The blankets felt more personal for whatever reason.

And they hurt more.

But now, the scab is healing over, and my backseat is left with just a small smattering of Maine-related board books that are beautiful and I'd like to keep for the art aspect. Not as a relic of an alternate reality, but for their own sakes. It's easier to do that because I bought them.

Sometimes the healing is smooth, and uncomplicated. Sometimes it's harsher, and leaves more of a sting behind. Both experiences are valid. Both are part of the process that I'm pretty sure is going to continue on indefinitely, long after the relics are gone.