Each time I come back, I realize I never left

I am presenting my research to a Grief and Loss class at the University of New England tomorrow. This will make the third time that I have presented my study on men's experience of miscarriage. Although I have known about this for months now, I only started preparing in earnest last night as I drank 3/4 of a bottle of wine while reading through my thesis; that much alcohol is way out of the ordinary for me. I woke up today feeling pretty down, pretty sad.

Even now, having just finished preparing, I caught myself imagining the death of my son. This isn't the first time I've imagined such a horrendous fate. My reaction is the same each time: if he were to die, they'd have to send me to a mental hospital. I honestly do not know how I would survive. Since his birth, memories of the miscarried babies have never gone away, but they no longer permeate my daily life. His birth has saved me from being forever present to my interminable grief for our miscarriages...without him, I don't know.

How do I make sure not to lay this burden on him? I don't want my grief to change him; his own will change him enough in his life time.

Somehow I had not expected it to hurt so much to return to this material, but it has been difficult. It surprises me each time I return to this work. It sneaks up on me, finds me, beats me up a bit, then slinks away so that it may accost me again someday.

I am glad to have the opportunity to present, but I will be relieved when I am done.