Post #71 – Women’s Memoir Writing, ScrapMoir – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
WELCOME TO WOMEN’S MEMOIRS CONTEST VALENTINE’S DAY READATHON
This is the second Valentine’s Day Memoir Contest story to be published in our first-ever ReadAThon. Each hour, for 11 hours, we are publishing an award-winning Valentine’s Day story.
We have four categories–
Worst Valentine’s Day
Worst Valentine’s Day Eventually Becoming Positive (Might Take Many Years)
Best Valentine’s Day
Most Humorous Valentine’s Day (In Retrospect, If Not at the Time)
and are publishing the award winners in that sequence. For each category, we publish the winner followed by the runner(s) up.
Worst Valentine’s Day: Honorable Mention
A HEAVY HEART
Shelley Brungardt
I woke up in a fog for the eleventh day in a row. As my mind cleared, it all came back to me in a rush, and my heart started aching again. It was Valentine’s Day, but all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball under the duvet and forget everything.
My husband and I attempted to make the best of the holiday. I honestly don’t remember if I gave him a card or gift. I don’t remember a whole lot, because for me, a good portion of that February was spent in a sad, cloudy haze of mourning.
What I do remember is that my husband bought me two gifts; a Baby-G sports watch and a pair of fuchsia and white Adidas. Both were items that I adored but would not have actually splurged on for myself. Those two gifts meant the world to me. I can’t explain why, but those two things lifted my spirits very slightly, just enough to give me hope that someday, I would feel happy again. Three years later, I cherish that watch and pair of shoes in a really odd way. During the two-and-a-half weeks that I spent lying on the sofa, watching movies and crying my eyes out between sleeping-pill-induced naps, they were the only things that made me smile.
Less than two weeks earlier, we received the devastating news that we had lost our baby at 15 weeks gestation. So the only other thing I clearly remember is that, in an effort to regain some sort of normalcy, we planned a dinner date for Valentine’s Day. We thought maybe a romantic, Valentine’s Day dinner would be good for us. And although I had a heavy heart, I thought it might be time to get out of the house. Getting ready for our date added to my depression; all of my clothes were too snug. The few pounds I had gained during the first trimester of my pregnancy were still stubbornly hanging on, and since I had been living in comfy gray sweats and a cozy blue hoodie, I had not noticed. It was the same outfit I had worn to the hospital for the day of my surgery, and with the exception of when I took them off to wash them, I had been wearing those same clothes ever since.
We headed into the evening out without a plan, much less dinner reservations. I think we were both feeling so lost and out of sorts that we were just going through the motions. First, we attempted dinner at Outback. It was familiar, comfortable, and nothing fancy; a good place for a low key dinner and drinks. But the wait to be seated was forty-five minutes. Disappointed and hungry, we randomly chose another venue; Primo’s d’ Italia. But their wait was over an hour long. At that point we were frustrated and angry. Obviously, it didn’t take much to upset us. It seems whiny, but looking back, it didn’t seem fair. In the big scheme of things, a long wait for a table on Valentine’s Day wasn’t unreasonable or unusual. But given our circumstances, it just seemed wrong; like the universe was against us. After all, we had just been dealt the most horrible blow. We simply desired to have dinner out and a distraction that would allow us to put our misery on the back burner, even if only for an hour or so.
That bleak February night was bitterly cold, and I was tired of traipsing into restaurants. Feeling defeated, we climbed into the car and headed towards home.
“So what do you want for dinner?” my husband asked as he drove.
“I really don’t care. I really don’t.” I replied dejectedly, wanting to cry.
As we drove, we saw the mall up ahead in the distance.
“Well, we could stop by Chick-fil-a,” my husband joked.
I thought about it. Chick-fil-a? For Valentine’s Day?
And then I laughed. Actually, I thought, the idea sounded good. No long waiting. Eating in the comfort of our home. Not having to try and hold back the tears, should I feel the need to cry. Hot, comfort food. Slipping back into my well-worn sweats, cuddling up and watching a good movie while we ate. It didn’t matter to me that it we were eating fast food on Valentine’s Day. After all, it was just a meal at this point. This year, the holiday had no real significance for me, other than the fact that we were mourning the loss of our first baby.
I told him I would wait in the vehicle while he went to place an order.
“Be sure and value-size mine.” I called as he exited the truck.
And why not? Maybe I wasn’t eating for two anymore, but at this point, a huge order of fries seemed comforting. I stared glumly out the window as I waited. Fifteen minutes later he returned, with two steaming bags of hot food.
Oddly enough, we were able to laugh about the evening as we drove home. But at that point, what else could we do? Getting fast food and eating in somehow seemed appropriate. We should have started with that plan from the beginning. We spent the rest of that melancholy evening curled up on the sofa and watching a movie, amid chicken sandwiches, waffle fries and sodas. It was a Valentine’s Day I will never forget.
