How “the office” helped after the death of my baby

On a September evening in 2005, I turned through the TV channels from my place on the sofa. Nothing attracted my attention until I stood in “The Office”, a new comedy that I had heard about but I had never seen. The piano played and pictures of Snowy Scranton, Pennsylvania, filled my screen, followed by clips from the characters, which I did not yet know: Pam at the reception, dwight numbers to add, Jim stopped a phone at his ear.

Then the camera concentrated on Michael, played by Steve Carell, who was sitting behind his desk, with a small gold statue in his hand. When he spoke, it almost felt like he was talking to me directly.

When the episode developed, I was fascinated. And I laughed loudly for the first time in weeks.

I had forgotten that I still knew how.

My husband stared a month earlier and I dreamy of the blurred pictures of our little girl on the ultrasound screen. We were at our 19-week anatomy scan, an appointment that I was looking forward to with nervous anticipation.

“She looks great,” said my Ob-Gyn.

Although I am naturally a Sorler, I breathed out. We had escaped nine of a bleeding blink in a week. I had put the treacherous first trimester in the shade. Our baby grew normally. The doctor finally said it.

“The office” for those who were not familiar with the sitcom, which was broadcast from 2005 to 2013, was a fun mockmentary with Carell, Mindy Kaling, John Krasinski, Jenna Fischer and Rader Wilson. The US show showed the daily life of Dunder Mifflin's employees, a paper supply company in Scranton, and was adapted with the same title from the British show.

When I first adjusted myself, the show was not guaranteed to be a full season. Fortunately, the popularity of the series exploded and led to 201, nine seasons, five Emmy Awards and a variety of phrases cited. (Many claim that “she said!” Was made popular.)

A week after this ultrasound, I noticed mild back pain after work. “It will disappear,” I told myself when the television buzzed in the background. I rested my feet on the couch and tried to distract myself by uniforming the math tests of my third grade.

When the afternoon melted into the evening, my pain gradually worsened – so much that I couldn't go up the stairs without bending. When I finally called the doctor's emergency line around 11 p.m., the nurse explained what was already quite obvious: I was most likely in premature babies and had to go to the emergency room.

A few hours later, after a painful natural work (with only morphine to relieve pain), I delivered a little girl. She lived about an hour and weighed about the same as a banana. Although I ask with the medical staff to do everything and everyone to keep them alive, their lungs were simply not developed enough.

“Can't you give your steroids?” I screamed during the delivery and desperately called out various corrections, which I vaguely remembered from lifelong films or “he”.

Then my husband, Joe and I kept their tiny body in our arms. She was wrapped in a pink knitted barbie ceiling and her skin looked like tissue paper porch and fragile. She moved her arm once. We called her Kathryn after my mother, who had died a year earlier, died.

One hour We say goodbye later.

After the hospital, I recovered at home and existed in a foggy haze.

I felt trapped in the house, but I couldn't imagine returning to my job after my two -month medical vacation was completed. When a package of handmade “Get Well” cards arrived from my students, I could only think I was pregnant when I last saw her … and now I'm not.

I kept crying, even on my daily trips to Starbucks. Sometimes I walked the whole quarter mile into tears and briefly composed myself to order my ice cream coffee just to take out the crying out again when the hot sun hit my back.

Joe suggested walks through the cobblestone streets of our neighborhood. On many occasions, we inevitably passed other pregnant women. “Fucking bitch”, I whispered to him, which gave me a current smile. But what I really wanted was exactly like her to be and stroll with my husband hand in hand when we adhered to baby names, lamaze classes and kindergarten.

Three weeks after Kathryn's birth Sting, I am in the living room on a Tuesday evening, television evening in my hand. Nothing interested me.

Then I decided on “the office”. It was season 2, Episode 1, The Night of the Annual Dundie Awards.

Although I missed the whole season 1 The was a perfect first episode.

“You have to see that,” I called Joe and made room for him on the sofa. We giggled through Michael's embarrassing moderation, drunken acceptance speech and the surprise kiss, which she gave Jim.

The show became the climax of my week. I found myself through my DVR, even though I stopped live. Sometimes I looked at episodes from behind – the same or three times in a row, especially my favorites like “The Fire”, “The Client” and “Christmas Party”.

I wanted to stay in the world of these characters. To be there allows me, even if fOr only 22 minutes to step out of my life. It allowed me to escape the baby clothes with tags that were still up. The visits to the follow-up doctor. The students in my classroom, which I had to teach again at some point. My pregnant employee with whom I had friends when we discovered our joint pregnancies. She had still expected and I would soon have to see her at our staff meetings. Just thinking about it was enough to make my eyes good.

I was waiting for the next episode all week. (This was before streaming.) Would Jim reveal his real feelings for Pam? Would Angela and Dwight's secret romance be exposed? What crazy – that's stupid – would Michael do next? (Can you burn your foot on a George Foreman Grill?)

My loss of pregnancy was one of the most difficult moments in my life years. I wanted to connect the massive emptiness that left it in me. I wanted to get pregnant again. Sometimes I just wanted to lie in bed and cry and kept the pink knitted hospital blanket that our baby kept during her fleeting life.

But when I looked at this first episode of “The Office”, something opened in me. I got a look at my old self again: the committed teacher, who was looking forward to seeing her students every morning. The fun -loving colleague who joined her work in the Nepa Hut Beach Bar for Happy Hour. The travel enthusiast, who planned frequent short vacation with her husband. The person with a joie de vivre that the house could leave without breaking out into tears.

It has been almost two decades since Kathryn's birth and death. I have two other children aged 15 and 18 and I am grateful for them who have indescribable.

Anyone who has ever experienced grief knows that there is no magical pill or a street map for survival. When Kathryn died, my sadness was like an ocean case and swallowed me entirely. I could hardly breathe. To be happy again seemed impossible.

This March was the 20th anniversary of “The Office”. In 2005 I did not expect this little -known mockmentary to leave a lasting influence on my life. At that time I thought it was just a funny show that helped me to feel better every Tuesday. I now know that it was more than that.

Today I think of “the office”, almost like a friend. Someone who kept me in society during a traumatic time. Who told me jokes. The endless amusement provided.

I discovered that the grief consuming fits. This does not mean that we love the person we have lost less. Or that we forget what they meant for us. Nevertheless, we can exist in the world again. The edges of our pain become less sharp, like a piece of sea glass that was thrown around in the surf. What was once jagged is now smooth.

We all have to go forward. Sometimes we expect the things that expect the least that help us the most. “The office” was the thing for me. A leash that brought me back and attributed me to the person I was today and still am.

I recently saw this first episode of season 2 with my family. We have settled in our usual places on the couch, we all comfortably under a blurred blanket. When Michael spoke to the camera, Joe and the children broke into laughter.

Lisa Mazinas is a primary school specialist from Philadelphia who writes about topics such as loss, parenthood, mental health and education. Her work was also published in Shondaland, the Inquirer, Miami Herald, the Education Week and elsewhere. She is currently writing a young book for adults, “desperate for normal”. Find them on Instagram @lmazinas.

Do you have a convincing personal story that you want to have published on Huffpost? Find out what we are looking for and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.