the works

Yesterday was my first day back at work after more than two months away. I had been looking forward to getting back in the swing of things and to feeling appreciated outside the home. But I had been dreading the awkwardness that I would surely encounter with co-workers regarding Amalia's death.

Most people at work already knew that Amalia died shortly after birth. That made my return easier. No one asked me to discuss the details (so far, at least). Only one person asked how the baby is doing and I couldn't really dodge the question. I had to answer that the baby died.

Several people came up to me and told me they were sorry, some hugged me, and though our conversations generally ended briefly with them actually verbalizing they didn't know what else to say, their expressing their sorrow and solidarity meant so much. I never realized until this time on the receiving end that just having someone come up to you, look you in the eyes and say they were sorry could be so meaningful.

On the other hand, I am disappointed that my direct neighbors at work, including a woman who was one of the inspirations behind me deciding to have another biological child and getting pregnant with Amaila, only said as much as: "Welcome back," though we sat next to each other at our adjoining desks for several hours.

I remembered my friend Cari's words from the time she and I talked about what it would be like to go back to work after all that had happened in my life. She said: "People will say stupid things (and I should add: or not say anything). Death makes people uncomfortable." It's true.

My students, whose class was predominantly taught by a sub, were genuinely happy to see me back, which was the best feeling ever. I will spend a month recruiting and signing the next batch of students up for the upcoming course, which I will start teaching in mid-April. I do like my job. It gives me lots of autonomy and makes me feel useful in the world.