Rage

I guess I’ve passed into that angry stage of grief, the anger that all those grief books talk about. Before, the anger was just simmering beneath the surface, boiling over only rarely from time to time. Like when I saw a pregnant woman in the furniture store, asking about rocking chairs for her nursery…I wanted to scream at her “don’t buy one! You might not get a baby in the end!” But I didn’t…I walked away and took a few deep breaths.

But now it’s boiled over. And there’s a good reason…we learned at the beginning of this week that my dad needs bypass surgery. Apparently he’s had 2 silent heart attacks sometime in the past several years. My 70 year old dad, who still works full time, harder than I do, who plays tennis 4 to 5 times a week, who plays piano and takes weekly lessons…my dad who delights in everyone he meets and who makes everyone smile…could die.

The doctors, and just about everyone I know keep telling me that this surgery is common these days, that most people respond wonderfully and live many years after to tell the story. I don’t care. I don’t believe in probabilities anymore. Most babies live. A lot of good that does me.

And I don’t trust doctors anymore. Perfectly healthy babies inside perfectly healthy mamas die. With no explanation. What good is modern medicine anyway?

And so the rage boils over.
I’m mad at the world.
Furious that the universe seems to be having a long belly laugh at my expense.
Now I’d like to scream and shake every pregnant woman I see…
”It just might NOT turn out ok!”

I’d like to beat someone up.
Or break things.
Or scream until I can scream no more.

And I’m not even scared of my anger anymore.
I was before, when those moments of rage would pierce my otherwise serene self-pity.
But now I own it.
My rage in its full technicolor glory.

I've laughed a lot more this week.
But it's a bitter laugh, not happy at all.
Life just feels like a big conspiracy.

I am just so angry.
And Ezra
is
not
here.