I promised myself I wouldn’t, but then I opened up to a writer I’ve long admired about the most surreal, unbelievable thing that has ever happened to me.
Ten months after my sister’s death, I can laugh and smile. I can sometimes care about other people’s problems. I can’t listen to voicemails or write thank you notes or stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I was badly injured in the accident that killed my mother. Never was I more at peace with her death than in those six months between the funeral and when I started walking again.
I shared our pregnancy news early — asserting that I wanted my community with me in joy, but also in potential sorrow. Now that I had miscarried, there were so many calls to make.