On a September evening in 2005, I flipped absently through the TV channels from my spot on the sofa. Nothing grabbed my attention until I paused on “The Office,” a new comedy that I had heard of but never seen. The piano theme song played and images of snowy Scranton, Pennsylvania, filled my screen, followed by clips of the characters that I did not yet know by name: Pam at reception, Dwight punching numbers into an adding machine, Jim holding a phone to his ear.

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

As the episode unfolded, I became mesmerized. And I laughed — out loud — for the first time in weeks.

I had forgotten that I still knew how.

One month earlier, my husband and I stared dreamily at the fuzzy images of our baby girl on the ultrasound screen. We were at our 19-week anatomy scan, an appointment that I had looked forward to with nervous anticipation.

“She looks great,” my OB-GYN said.

Although I’m a worrier by nature, I exhaled. We had escaped a bleeding scare at week nine. I had eclipsed the treacherous first trimester. Our baby was growing normally. The doctor had said so, after all.

We were having a baby.

Until we weren’t.

“The Office,” for those unfamiliar with the sitcom that aired from 2005 to 2013, was a hilarious mockumentary, starring Carell, Mindy Kaling, John Krasinski, Jenna Fischer and Rainn Wilson. The U.S. show depicted the daily lives of the staff at Dunder Mifflin, a paper supply company in Scranton, and was adapted from the British show with the same title.

When I first tuned in, the show hadn’t even been guaranteed to run a full season. Thankfully, the series’ popularity exploded, leading to 201 episodes, nine seasons, five Emmy awards, and a multitude of quotable phrases. (Many claim that’s where “That’s what she said!” was popularized.)

One week after that ultrasound, I noticed mild back pain after work. “It will go away,” I told myself as the TV hummed in the background. I rested on the couch with my feet up, trying to distract myself by grading my third grade students’ math tests.

As the afternoon melted into evening, my pain gradually intensified — so much that I eventually couldn’t walk up the stairs without hunching over. When I finally called the doctor’s after-hours emergency line around 11 p.m., the nurse stated what was already pretty obvious: I was most likely in preterm labor and needed to go to the emergency room.

A few hours later, after an agonizing natural labor (with only morphine to ease the pain), I delivered a baby girl. She lived for approximately one hour and weighed about the same as a banana. Despite my pleading with the medical staff to try anything and everything to keep her alive, her lungs were simply not developed enough.

“Can’t you give her steroids?” I yelled during the delivery, frantically shouting out various fixes that I vaguely remembered from Lifetime movies or “ER.”

Afterward, my husband, Joe, and I held her tiny body in our arms. She was wrapped in a pink knitted Barbie-size blanket and her skin looked like tissue paper — translucent and fragile. She moved her arm once. We named her Kathryn, after my mom who died one year earlier.

An hour later, we said goodbye.

Recovering at home after the hospital, I existed in a foggy haze.

I felt trapped in the house but couldn’t imagine going back to my job after my two-month medical leave finished either. When a package of handmade “get well” cards arrived from my students, all I could think was, I was pregnant the last time that I saw them ... and now I’m not.

I cried constantly, even on my daily trips to Starbucks. Sometimes, I trekked the entire quarter mile in tears, composing myself briefly to order my iced coffee, only to resume crying again outside as the hot sun beat on my back.

Joe suggested taking walks around the cobblestone streets of our neighborhood. On many occasions, we inevitably passed other pregnant women. “Fucking bitch,” I would whisper to him, which gave me a momentary smile. But what I really wanted was to be just like them, strolling hand in hand with my husband, as we chatted about baby names, Lamaze classes and nursery decor.

Three weeks after Kathryn’s birth, I lounged in the living room on a Tuesday evening, TV remote in hand. Nothing interested me.

Then I settled on “The Office.” It was Season 2, Episode 1, the night of the annual Dundie Awards.

Even though I had missed all of Season 1, this was a perfect first episode to watch.

“You have to see this,” I called to Joe, making room for him on the sofa. We chuckled at Michael’s embarrassing emceeing, at Pam’s drunken acceptance speech, and at the surprise kiss she bestowed on Jim.

The show became the highlight of my week. I found myself recording each one through my DVR even though I was tuning in live. Sometimes, I would watch episodes over again back to back — the same one twice or three times in a row, especially my faves like “The Fire,” “The Client” and “Christmas Party.”

I wanted to stay in the world of those characters. Being there allowed me, even if for just 22 minutes, to step outside my life. It allowed me to escape the baby clothes with tags that were still upstairs. The follow-up doctor’s visits. The students in my classroom that I would eventually need to teach again. My pregnant co-worker whom I had become friendly with when we discovered our shared pregnancies. She was still expecting and I would soon have to see her at our staff meetings. Just thinking about it was enough to make my eyes well up.

I waited anxiously 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 is, stupid — thing would Michael do next? (Can you top burning your foot on a George Foreman grill?)

My pregnancy loss was one of the hardest moments in my then-32 years of life. I wanted to plug the massive void it left inside me. I wanted to get pregnant again. Sometimes, I just wanted to lie in bed and cry, holding the pink knitted hospital blanket that held our baby during her fleeting life.

But when I watched that first episode of “The Office,” something opened inside me. I caught a glimpse of my old self again: the dedicated teacher who looked forward to seeing her students every morning. The fun-loving colleague who joined her work BFFs for happy hour at the Nepa Hut Beach Bar. The travel enthusiast who planned frequent getaways with her husband. The person with a zest for life who could leave the house without bursting into tears.

I felt hope.

It’s been almost two decades since Kathryn’s birth and death. I have two more children, ages 15 and 18, and am thankful for them beyond words.

Anyone who’s ever experienced grief knows that there is no magic pill or road map for survival. When Kathryn died, my sadness was like an ocean wave, swallowing me whole. I could hardly breathe. Being happy again seemed impossible.

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

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

I’ve discovered that the all-consuming grief does pass. That doesn’t mean that we love the person we lost any less. Or that we forget what they meant to us. Yet, we can exist again in the world. The edges of our pain become less sharp, like a piece of sea glass that’s been tossed around in the surf. What was once jagged is now smooth.

We all have to keep moving forward. Sometimes, it’s the things we least expect that help us the most. “The Office” was that thing for me. A lifeline that carried me along, guiding me back to the person that I used to be and still am today.

Recently, I rewatched that first episode of Season 2 with my family. We settled into our usual spots on the couch, all of us cozy under a fuzzy blanket. As Michael spoke to the camera, Joe, and the kids broke into laughter.

So did I.

Lisa Mazinas is a Philadelphia-area elementary reading specialist who writes on themes of loss, parenting, mental health and education. Her work has also appeared in Shondaland, The Inquirer, The Miami Herald, Education Week, and elsewhere. She is currently writing a young adult book, “Desperate for Normal.” Find her on Instagram @lmazinas.

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