Logan started daycare this week, or school as we’ve been calling it. While he was there I decided to spend a few hours at work on Wednesday and Thursday reacquainting myself with the computer system and all the changes that have occurred since my unexpected departure nearly three months ago. I am not “officially” back for a few more weeks but I have been having so much anxiety about it that I thought it would help me if I eased back into the life I used to know. It was difficult at first, but not as horrible as I had feared. It was nice to visit with my friends and feel “normal” again. It felt good to laugh and to use my brain. It felt even better to talk to patients and take care of someone else. I felt my eyes fill a few times and occasionally I took some deep breaths and swallowed my pain but I could handle it. The grief wasn’t all-consuming. The hole in my heart felt more like a fresh scar than a gaping wound and my mind wasn’t spinning with constant thoughts of Ava. I felt like I was ready to come back to work.

But then I saw them, the pregnant women. The really pregnant women. The ones that I had bonded with as we compared due dates and growing bellies and pregnancy woes. The ones that can no longer see their toes or tie their shoes. The ones that are due to have their babies any minute. The ones that I’m supposed to still be. I didn’t speak to a single pregnant patient and I could barely look at them, hiding my face as they passed by my desk. I’m not ready to see them yet and I’m definitely not ready for them to see me. I’m not ready to answer their puzzled stares when they realize I’m no longer pregnant or worse, answer questions about the baby when they think I’ve just returned from a simple maternity leave. I haven’t exactly worked out what my response is going to be in those situations. How will I tell our story without terrifying my patients or making them feel bad for asking? How will I care for them when they are staring at me with sad eyes wanting to console me and offer their condolences? How will I keep from being Cari the grieving mother and just be Cari the nurse?

When I got home that night all I could think was, I’m not really ready for any of that yet. I’m not ready to tell my story to my patients and I’m not ready to care for them just yet. I’m not ready to hear about the life moving inside of their swollen bellies or lend a sympathetic ear when they tell me they’re sick of being pregnant because I would have given anything to be as big and as pregnant as they are now. I’m not ready to congratulate them and prepare them for the birth of their babies because I was supposed to be preparing for the birth of my own. I was supposed to be counting down the days, less than a week now, until my due date. I’m not ready to be happy for them because I’m still feeling too sorry for myself.

If I’m really being honest I’m also not ready to care for them because there’s a part of me that’s just still too angry to care. There is the self-centered, jealous, and childish part of me that doesn’t understand what makes them so special. What makes them worthy of a child when mine was taken from me? Why them and not me? Why their babies and not mine? Why will their babies go home with them, even the unplanned, undesired, burdensome pregnancies, while the baby we planned and longed for is alone in a box? I know it’s silly and petty and meaningless to ask because the world doesn’t work that way. A cell doesn’t divide and organs perfectly form because they deserve to and even if that was the case these women and their babies are just as deserving as I am, and Ava was. The universe is random and chaotic and unjust, I know this, but it still makes me angry. It makes me want to turn away from every pregnant woman I see and it secretly makes me hate them just a little bit. It makes me want to never have to face any of them again. It makes me want to quit my job, but I won’t.

When Ava died I lost so much more than my child and sometimes it feels like each day since her death I lose something more. I don’t want my grief to consume every part of my life, and my job is one of the last things I have left. I want to be able to let go of my anger and share in my patients’ happiness again. It is going to be incredibly difficult, but I have to try because deep down I still love what I do. I love taking care of women but I especially love taking care of pregnant women. I love teaching them about the amazing things happening inside of their bodies and reassuring them when they are scared. I love preparing them for childbirth and cheering them on to become the wonderful mothers I know they will be. I love having the privilege of being a part of their pregnancies and watching their families grow, and I refuse to give up that part of my life without a fight. So I went back for another day.

The second day, Thursday, I went to the office and took a big step. I called patients that were newly pregnant to congratulate them and start their prenatal care. I was dreading it. This seemed like one of the more painful things I would have to do at work but it wasn’t so bad. My patients’ excitement was contagious and suddenly I couldn’t help but be genuinely happy for them. It made me happy to answer their questions and calm their pregnancy jitters, and my smile was a little less forced. I started to believe I could actually come back and do my job, and maybe even be better at it than I was before. On Wednesday night I had reflected on my day and cried, but Thursday was a little different. I still felt sad, but for the first time in months, I also felt hope for the future. I felt one step closer to reclaiming my identity, my life, and my happiness. In less than two weeks I will officially return to my job and hopefully, it will bring me one step closer to getting back to life.