I Wore My Grief

I need a bigger word than Unfair.

It was the most surreal, unfair and painful thing I think a person could ever experience. Imagine it: imagine having a postpartum body but no baby. Swollen. Shrinking. Empty.

Nothing fits. Oh you've got your big mesh knickers and jogging bottoms and oversized shirts (perpetually milk damp here and here). But these are no good for a funeral.

So you must shop. Everything is soft and squishy and leaking and still a little sore. You're raw and vulnerable and not ready to be out and about, but you drag this everything to the shop, anyway.

You dodge questions like "When are you due?"

Worse, when she recognises postpartum when she sees it, and the silent question stutters in her eyes: "Where's your baby?"

You beg, silently:

Don't ask it.

Better to judge me silently for leaving his side to shop.

Better to miss the postpartum signs, and judge me for for being a bit fat. I feel it, and it's most assuredly not the worst thing I feel.

Your silent judgement is more bearable than having to answer that question: where's your baby?

It feels like moving in a dream, or out of body. It's absurd and sad all at once. Except "sad" is an even smaller word than "unfair".

It feels like you should have an OUT OF ORDER sign hung on you, because this is outside of the natural order. Every nerve jangling and shrieking the wrongness of it all.

You want to hold him like you want to breathe, but he isn't there, and will never be there.

And he's going under the dirt, and you never want to see that happen, but you can't look away.

This might be the breaking of you.

What did I buy, in the end? I've no idea. I wore black, but mostly I wore the judgement of others. I wore their thoughtless questions and mean comments. I wore their cruelty. I wore my deep need for them to understand, and my absolute inability to make that happen, to impart the magnitude of what had happened and how it felt.

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Word count - 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and authors note.)

Submitted on Monday 23rd September at 14:55

The story behind the story: This came about after a conversation with a friend, who told me about the surreal experience of shopping for a dress for a funeral. Words are mine. I hope I have captured the sentiment in the story.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 267 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but...

NINETY-NINE DAYS TO GO

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I will do my best to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

If you prefer something light-hearted, or if you chose not to read this because of the content warning, here is an alternative:

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Thank you again!