- 7 b: one of the persons of a drama or novel
- 7 c: the personality or part which an actor recreates
An only slightly planned plan, if that makes any sense, but a plan. The train was on the track and we were all headed towards the goal...or at least a short-term one.
Then the train was derailed, all in a few terrifying moments in the early morning of October 22, 2010. My baby girl, so carefully planned for, suffocated inside of my body.
From that moment in time, my life has been on a different path. So much is the same and yet everything is different. I've gone from being very sure of our heading to having no clue where we're going at all.
It feels very much like what I imagine it would be like to suddenly become someone else, perhaps even a character in a book. Many times I feel like I have been suddenly yanked away into someone else's life, someone else's story.
And yet it is my own.
The supporting cast (and I mean that literally as well as figuratively) are my husband, my child, my family and my friends. They are all here with me and it is they who make it clear that this is mine.
And yet it is not.
This is not what was supposed to happen. This is not what I am supposed to be doing. Instead of this massive grief I am supposed to be describing my two-month-old daughter, how she relates to her father and sister and yes, how the non-sleep is driving me bonkers.
People here in Russia are supposed to be cooing over my precious little one instead of asking me how I am doing and then waiting after I respond with "Fine, and how are you?" for me to...I don't even know...break down, freak out, explain my myriad of emotions...who knows.
But now, you see, all of that, all of the supposed to be is the not to be and is instead the other track, the other path, the other story...the one in which I play no part...no part at all.
I have my story-line. It has been firmly, rudely, and decidedly placed before me. That nice, lovely, what should-have-been story is non-existant, at least for me.
So here I am, a character in a novel I haven't read. One that might as well have been written in Mandarin Chinese for all I can do is blunder through it, not comprehending. I don't know my place; I don't know my lines; I cannot figure out where the story is headed because I do not belong in this story.
And yet this is it. This is my only spot, the only place for me. It is so very difficult to not think of what was and what should have been. It is tough to experience my life without my second daughter in it. That is the point, however; is it not? For if she were here, I would not be experiencing my life.
I'd be a character in some made-up story.