Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Grief and tragedy: Trying to find the happy

This morning my dear friend and next door neighbor passed away after a long battle with cancer.  Carol was an amazing wife, mother, grandmother and friend. She fought cancer not once but three times and always with a tenacity that surprised those around her.  We spent many holidays with her and her husband Butch over the last three years and had come to regard them as our Colorado family. 

My heart is just so heavy and sad today. We had dinner with Carol last Wednesday and before we left their house (with a bag full of leftovers, because she was always trying to take care of us) she hugged me and told me that she was feeling good and that she hoped she would live to see me and Ken become parents. If our beta test is positive, behind our parents, she was one of the people I was most looking forward to sharing our news with. I know that she is definitely in a better place and that she is no longer in pain. I know she is rejoicing to be reunited with her precious son Jamie that she lost several years ago, but today, I ache for the loss of my friend.

Today is the first day since our transfer that I am allowed up and out of bed, so my husband made me promise to try and not lay in bed and cry all day. So, being a good southern girl, I got dressed and went to the grocery store to buy the ingredients to make 2 big pans of King Ranch Chicken to stock Butch's freezer. I don't know why, but somehow the chopping and prepping soothes a wounded soul. 

I haven't bothered to turn on the TV today because of all the coverage of the tornadoes in Moore, OK. I'm heartbroken for the people who lost everything and the parents who lost their children and I know that my fragile emotional cocktail just can't handle seeing any more images of that tragedy.

I'm still trying to think happy, sticky, baby thoughts, but they are much harder to come by.  I actually dreamt the opening sequence of Look Who's Talking yesterday, so I've tried to recall that as many times as possible with the hopes that through sheer will power and positive thinking I can coax little Embry into implantation. Burrow in little one.  We need to find some happy.


  1. Ah, friend. I'm so sorry for your loss, and for Butch's. Carol sounds amazing and truly lovely. The complexity and intelligent design of this world can be tough to swallow at times like this. And at other times its plentifully delicious. Thank you for sharing and stirring the pot for me. Sometimes it's just good to have an ulgly cry and fry some chicken. Ba soup! Should be Fried Chicken for the Soul.

  2. Oh! I'm so sorry for the loss of your dear, dear friend. Just so sorry.

  3. I am so sorry for your loss! I can understand how you'd want to crawl back in bed to mourn your friend, but making big pans of chicken is an excellent alternative. And, you cannot cry an embryo out--nothing you do (even if you were super sick stomachwise!) can stop implantation from happening if it's happening. That was a comforting thought for me when I suffered a personal loss during one of my waits after a transfer--so ugly cry away, as your friend said. I sincerely hope you get your happy to balance out all this sadness. Thinking of you!