Today is a hard day. We announced our pregnancy last year via Facebook and phone calls on April 1st. I posted my Facebook status as "Amy is eating breakfast for two" and Jeff changed his to "Jeff is cultivating his dad beard." It was a really fun day, as we had been keeping the secret for quite some time, having known about the pregnancy for two full months before we spread the news. By that time we were really tired of keeping the secret, but I made Jeff hold out because I like April Fool's jokes.
Jeff and I knew that today would not be easy to get through, because it is so clearly tied in our minds to Leah. Remembering the joy of expectation cuts deep. So when we found out that a band we really enjoy, the Mountain Goats, was playing a show in Chicago on April 1st, we opted for a little distraction from our grief and made plans to go. Although I am not feeling much like going anywhere today, I am glad we bought tickets. Knowing that we have them will force me out of the house on a day when I just want to stay home and hide under the covers.
It makes sense to me to go to the concert, because the Mountain Goats ended up providing my coping music during the early stages of grief. Right after our diagnosis in May I went to California for my Mom's graduation from college. While there, I spent a great deal of time driving and listening to a mixed CD my sister Emily had left in the car. One of the Mountain Goats' songs, "No Children," always made me smile. It is a dark, yet funny, song about a really, really miserable marriage that has devolved into extreme bitterness and hatred. It features uplifting lyrics such as "I am drowning, there is no sign of land, you are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand, and I hope you die, I hope we both die." and "I hope it stays dark forever, I hope the worst isn't over, I hope you blink before I do, and I hope I never get sober." There is something intensely satisfying about singing these words at the top of your lungs. Maybe because it makes you realize that there are so many people with so much more pain than you, or who bear some responsibility for their pain, which I think has to make it so much worse.
I have a somewhat dark sense of humor, and this song completely appealed to that aspect of my personality and allowed me to vent some of my bitterness at a time when I was still very much in a state of shock and unable to access my feelings well. As a side note, I felt a bit bad about some of my dark humor during that time, but later read an article about how healthy dark humor is in a bad situation, so now I am glad that I had the freedom to crack a few inappropriate jokes about my condition. It's a good thing Emily went along with it.
Tonight we will venture into the city for a little distraction and some good music.
Jeff and I knew that today would not be easy to get through, because it is so clearly tied in our minds to Leah. Remembering the joy of expectation cuts deep. So when we found out that a band we really enjoy, the Mountain Goats, was playing a show in Chicago on April 1st, we opted for a little distraction from our grief and made plans to go. Although I am not feeling much like going anywhere today, I am glad we bought tickets. Knowing that we have them will force me out of the house on a day when I just want to stay home and hide under the covers.
It makes sense to me to go to the concert, because the Mountain Goats ended up providing my coping music during the early stages of grief. Right after our diagnosis in May I went to California for my Mom's graduation from college. While there, I spent a great deal of time driving and listening to a mixed CD my sister Emily had left in the car. One of the Mountain Goats' songs, "No Children," always made me smile. It is a dark, yet funny, song about a really, really miserable marriage that has devolved into extreme bitterness and hatred. It features uplifting lyrics such as "I am drowning, there is no sign of land, you are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand, and I hope you die, I hope we both die." and "I hope it stays dark forever, I hope the worst isn't over, I hope you blink before I do, and I hope I never get sober." There is something intensely satisfying about singing these words at the top of your lungs. Maybe because it makes you realize that there are so many people with so much more pain than you, or who bear some responsibility for their pain, which I think has to make it so much worse.
I have a somewhat dark sense of humor, and this song completely appealed to that aspect of my personality and allowed me to vent some of my bitterness at a time when I was still very much in a state of shock and unable to access my feelings well. As a side note, I felt a bit bad about some of my dark humor during that time, but later read an article about how healthy dark humor is in a bad situation, so now I am glad that I had the freedom to crack a few inappropriate jokes about my condition. It's a good thing Emily went along with it.
Tonight we will venture into the city for a little distraction and some good music.
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3 comments:
Oh Amy, you're the best. The concert sounds inappropriately appropriate for the day.
I remember your phone call a year ago. I'd never been so happy to hear someone was pregnant.
So many hard milestones to get through...
You're both in my thoughts and prayers. I tried to find you on Facebook once and couldn't; please look me up sometime if you get a chance. I miss you! I hope the concert brought you some moments of release.
thanks a lot for calling me out on also having a dark sense of humor! "It's a good thing Emily put up with it"= "Emily also made jokes about the horrible situation"...
where's that article you mentioned about dark humor? I would like to read it, to convince myself of my emotional health.
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