Good Grief.

One of my favorite expressions. Reminds me of the good old Peanuts gang. I loved that the kids ruled the world and that their interactions with an assortment of clueless, robotically-mumbling, adult automatons was a side issue. Poor old Charlie Brown, was he indeed mirroring his creator's lifelong depression?

Because the funny thing about grief, is that it's never really "good". It can be good for you, sure. I'll admit that my recent and continuing grief over my various IF issues is healthier than my previous oblivion and denial that anything was wrong. But goddamn, it's painful.

For me, the colours of grief are black and red. Black signifying the webbed veins of mascara threading down my face last week as I lay in the foetal position in bed, howling at the cruel fates over yet another failure. Red, signifying the arrival of another unwanted guest. Red will be the colour of the week after yet more surgery to inspect my bits for scarring and trauma caused by so much loss-related previous surgery. Black symbolised my mood upon the return of our Karotyping/Immunology results, showing that our perfect embies are probably being rejected by my foul, defective body.

The paradox of grieving, is that just when you need the understanding/empathy of those around you, you're mired in the most personal of raw, visceral emotion which can barely be accepted, let alone understood by others.

Sadly, other people's tolerance of your grieving leaves the room much sooner than your actual grief does.