Last night as I was driving home from my second 18+ hour day, I felt it coming on.
Tomorrow is Taylor's due date, so I'd been expecting it. Plus, sleep deprivation and lonely roads tend to set the stage for sorrow. It started with a thought that was trying to wedge it's way in that I was refusing to acknowledge it. I turned the radio up a little and sang along. The thoughts persisted. I turned the radio up almost as loud as it would go and sang as loud as I could to songs I didn't really know the words too.
A loud radio won't always silence thoughts.
And the thought was a strange one. When I was in the hospital for my surgery, my doctor was significantly less than supportive. In fact, she was downright callous. The nurses were better. In recovery, I remember one of them took my hand, and said everything happened for a reason and she was sure she'd see my name in delivery this winter. She was right, for two days, and now she's wrong again.
It's a simple thought, a short memory. But it's funny how these things work and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I gave in and turned the radio off and sobbed. I sobbed for my precious Taylor and her too short existence. I sobbed for the baby who should have been my winter baby. I sobbed for me. It lasted less than 5 minutes. I thought I wasn't done, so I played myself a song that always makes me cry. Nope. I was done. That was it.
So I turned the radio back on, and I kept driving.