All I was looking for was a manilla envelope.
I needed to bring our marriage license to the car dealership. They were attempting to finish up our paperwork, but the vehicle we traded in was in my maiden name. So, they needed my marriage license.
Not wanting to bring the license to the dealership all unprotected and exposed, I decided it should go into an envelope.
I knew we only had one in the house, and it was currently being used. But that's the only thing I could think of to house this document.
So, I removed the two ultrasound photos that were living in the folder. Put them in a filing cabinet with sweet cards that Buster has given me over the years.
And all of the sudden, I broke down. Buster comes in, asks what's wrong. I tell him. I expected him to be exasperated. Exhausted from my mood swings. To sigh, roll his eyes, or walk away. Or all three.
But instead, he just held me close. And I cried, for the first time that day. Maybe for the first time in a couple of days.
You know how people say they feel like they were punched in the gut? It is so fitting to describe the wave of sadness that hits you every so often. Sometimes it's triggered by what someone says, what you've looked at online, the date, a pregnant belly. Sometimes the catalyst is your own mind, racing too fast and thinking too many things.
If you've suffered a loss, you know all of this already. I know I'm not the first to feel this way, and I won't be the last.
I feel like this isn't me, and not my life. Sure, I feel practically normal most of the time. Probably 90% of the time. Buster and I have really been enjoying each other and our life together.
But when that punch in the gut happens, it knocks me into some strange nightmare. Where nothing is right and good, and never will be.
I hate that nightmare.