Earlier this week, my therapist noted that it has been three years since we first met.
Her name was on a small strip of paper given to me by the midwife’s office, with a list of about 10 names. The slip of paper was between a third and a quarter of a sheet. I wondered how often they printed it, whether they used a paper cutter or whether the distribution was less frequent, perfect for scissors.
I wondered about the other women who received the other slips of paper. Was there anyone else that day, there for a loss follow up? Was there anyone else who was spending her nights sobbing, quietly so as not to wake her toddler, thinking of the sibling he wouldn’t meet?
I wondered if the names on the list were gathered with care?
There were asterisks next to the ones that, in addition to providing talk therapy, could also prescribe medications. I knew the pain I had needed medication, and after doing some research, chose the one therapist that had published a book. I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford to see her much longer, but that’s another story. She’s been amazing. She has helped me process the loss of a baby.
But I knew that something was wrong from the start. It was hard to tell close friends and family, but I was trying to wish away the feeling of dread, a knot in my stomach that told me something was wrong. Call it intuition, maybe.