Wake up at 6:45 a.m., together. Brush your teeth, decide you don't have the energy to shower. If you're Rachel, you throw on yoga pants and a t-shirt for class. For Tony it's shorts, a t-shirt and tennis shoes. Fill your water bottles. Make sure you have your bag with all your materials in it, you're going to need them today. Drive in a heavy silence to the UWM campus. One of you might be quiet, listening to music and thinking. The other is also thinking, but with tears running down her face. You try to talk to each other, but what words are enough to tell your partner you know they are hurting too and you are there for them? The morning ride passes in a blur. You feel crampy and all-around icky as you get nearer and nearer to campus. There is some hand holding. Finally, you reach campus and park. You've gotten to class almost forty minutes early. You turn to each other, and everything clicks into place. You are going to be okay, both of you. And the reason you're going to be okay is because you have each other.
You kiss each other goodbye, tell each other "I love you." You get out of the car and put one foot in front of the next. Keep doing this, this is what is going to get you through today, and tomorrow, and the next day after that. You go to lecture, try to read the current chapter in order to prepare for the day's quiz. The lecture begins and your professor makes no sense. You scramble to copy the notes, becoming more and more confused and frustrated by the second. You start to cry. In the middle of a lecture with at least fifty people in it, you start to cry. You manage to gather your thoughts and keep the crying to a minimum. You take a quiz. You may have bombed the quiz, you really don't know (or care). Class is released early, and you go upstairs to wait for lab.
The guy you're supposed to meet with for lab today isn't in his office. You go downstairs to meet with the second check-in person. They aren't in their office either. You debate going to regular lab, because hey, your doctor says you're miscarrying anyway. Maybe it would be better to just get that transition over with. Then again, when you enter the lab and try to explain to the teaching assistant why you're there you begin to cry again. Better to just drop off your lab from last week and go sit in the hall. Finally, about five minutes past the start time of lab, the guy you're waiting for turns up. You manage to stumble through all the lab questions, only encountering a few moments of awkward silence in which the air is heavy with knowledge that the likelihood of this pregnancy ending in a positive manner is slim to none. Neither of you know what to say, and the moments pass.
Now it's 12:00. You have discussion at 12:30. You go outside for some fresh air, only to find it's rather chilly. You sit out there as long as you can with goosebumps riddling your arms and legs...and then you get hit with a big, fat raindrop. You get up and go sit inside the classroom, waiting for discussion to begin. You go over your exam and the discussion becomes quite heated as students argue with the teaching assistant over the grading system. You join in here, and allow yourself to get quite vocal. You now have an outlet for some of the emotions swirling around inside of you, and it feels awesome to feel something and not be crying. There is no resolution to the argument, but it sure felt good to let off steam anyway.
Discussion ends at 1:20. You go out to the car where your husband is waiting for you. As you approach the car you realize your step is lighter, your movements not so heavy. It is as you open the door to give him a big smile and a kiss that you realize your heart has mended since yesterday. There are still broken pieces scattered all around, but it is put together enough that you can see a light at the end of this tunnel. Your mind starts planning -- you have a burning desire to move forward with renewed faith and fervor. What needs to be done in order to start the next cycle?
In the meantime your husband is quiet. When you ask how he is doing, he says "alright, just down. But that's normal." And it hits you then how differently the two of you grieve. You know yourself, and keeping yourself busy is the best thing for you. He doesn't operate that way. He watched some t.v., did some solo thinking, and went to the gym. Again, you reach out to hold his hand. You discuss what's for lunch. Then you go home, snuggle with him and the dog, and watch a movie.
Life is okay -- not great, maybe not even good, but okay. You have a sense of peace about the situation, along with a small seed of hope for the unknown that the future will bring. And you know there's no one other than your husband with whom you'd prefer to end "the day after."
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