Last week I shared a metaphor about grief involving waves, and how with time and healing the waves become less frequent and less intense. What I didn't write about (because I didn't think of it at the time) was about rogue waves. The NOAA defines rogue waves as "waves that are greater than twice the size of surrounding waves, are very unpredictable, and often come unexpectedly from directions other than the prevailing wind and waves." If you're more of a visual person, see this example.
So why do I write about rogue waves now? Because I got hit by one on Sunday. My sister, the pregnant one, got a new haircut/dye job and sent me a picture. Except the picture showed her stomach and the beginnings of being visibly pregnant (though, in her defense, this was not the intent of the picture). Honestly if you didn't know her and didn't know she was pregnant, you probably wouldn't guess. But I know. I saw. I noticed. And it hurt.
Not my proudest moment, but I'll admit that I threw the phone across the room and proceeded to have an ugly cry. The picture took me by surprise but so did the intensity of the feelings. Now, three days later, the anger has faded, but the left out-ness hasn't faded at all. Silly as it sounds I'm already dreading the holidays. I thought last year would be the hardest. Maybe not.
So that's where I'm at. Two steps forward, one step back.