Labor

 

When women labor in birth, they sometimes become overwhelmed and say, "I don't want to do this any more." as if there is some choice in the matter. 

I never got to that place as I labored to birth my babies, but I find myself there now as I labor in his death. Fruitlessly I say, "I don't want to do this any more."

I don't want to dissolve into tears at my husband's loving and concerned expression.

I don't want to close my eyes for sleep and be flooded with the image of his cold, pale face in death.

I don't want to spin through the thousand things I might have done if only I'd known.

I don't want every announcement of 988 to echo with "too late, too late, too late."

I don't want my stomach to twist with the literally gut-wrenching pain of losing him. 

I don't want to wonder if January will forever be a desperate stretch between the holidays he isn't here for and the anniversary of his death in February.

I don't want my hold on normal life to diminish day by day, the loss drawing closer and closer to the surface until I finally give in and dive deep into the pain. Until I put pen to paper, tears falling on the page, pausing to rock and keen until I can come back tot he words, and eventually to the world. 

Birthing labor comes to and end, and most of the time there is a baby to celebrate. Family gathers. The joyful (and painful) work of parenting begins.

Does the labor of death come to an end? Does it leave something beautiful and rich when it goes? Time will tell. For now I know this much: I am forever changed, by his birth, by his life, and by his death.