Grr. Argh.

December 22, 2008

There’s a quote most often attributed to Shakespeare, but it seems to have been a common phrase of his time and shows up in other plays – Dekker and Middleton, Heywood, and Behn all used it.  There are days where I feel so swept up in self pity that I want to use it, too:

Oh me, unhappy!

I’m working through most of the holiday weeks, though I’m re-thinking this as it seems to be about the time where I need to take a break or take my bad moods out on those around me.  I’d really love to save up every leave day that I can, but it’s not worth spreading the misery, really.

I caught a minute of some TV station’s “Miracles of 2008” that was about a little girl with CDH.  I wish someone would talk about the miracle-ness of those who didn’t survive, too.  Or that people were less complacent about the whole concept of miracles.  I don’t want anyone else to feel this way, to miss their baby this way, but I admit that, for a moment, I wanted their miracle taken away.  If I can’t have mine, why do they get theirs?  Who is this hateful person residing in my mind and heart these days?  Why can’t I make her go away?

Oh me, unhappy!

It would be nice to see that Teddy’s loss had resulted in the ability to “not sweat the small stuff.”  Shouldn’t a great loss result in a stronger sense of perspective, in more solid priorities?  But it seems, so often lately, as though all that small stuff just hurts more than it should, more than it used to.  By the end of last week, I was fuming and unpleasant, and I’ve entered into this week feeling much the same.

And I’ve dragged Teddy into this: “If Teddy hadn’t died, I’d be taking these days off.  I’d be happy and home and wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”  Which probably isn’t even true.  I’m perfectly capable of being irritated at home, too (just ask N).  And in spite of my inexperience, I really don’t have many illusions of idyllic motherhood.  But the truth of it doesn’t matter so much.  I want my lost life.  I want my lost son.  I want my stretch marks to mean something happy and alive.  I want my lost, better version of myself.  Some days, Grief Girl dons her cape and won’t go back into her box no matter what I do, and I hate her.  I hate me.

Oh me, unhappy.

I’ll be better tomorrow, maybe.



  1. Oh, I so feel you, Erica. I have had so many moments thinking, “Why does their CDH baby get to live and mine doesn’t?” So many…

  2. Oh, I’m so sorry. Those “miracle” shows are the worst. Why, just why.

    I hope you have better days soon.

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