2 years out and I have a few things to say

I haven't written in a while
Because life is busy. I spent the summer traveling. I returned to the place where my sweet daughter's ashes are scattered, and I had a sense of peace knowing that she is always a part of me and I do not have to frantically work to remember her.
This knowledge has been following me lately
Sometimes she arrives as I am hunched over at the supper table
Sometimes her quiet voice speaks to me as I am running late for my morning class
Or in the silent hours of my work day right before closing, when everything is still and my heart is full
And there are days when I can go almost all day without actively thinking and remembering. As I crawl into bed at night, I sink into the soft embrace of remembering my sweet baby. But the pain doesn't sting like it used to, not always. More often than not it is a soft, gentle ache, a remembering of what should have been but isn't.
She was never mine to keep
She was always going to journey home
Her second birthday came and went, and it's been almost a month now since that day.
I can scarcely believe that my baby would be 2. If she had lived I imagine a birthday cake with pink frosting and presents. I wonder how many words she would know, if she would be fearless or timid.
I guess more than anything I want to write here to remember.
I wanted to write here again because my life is changing, and I'm not the same broken new mama I was 2 years ago, who had lost everything
Yes, I still miss my girl. I miss the life I could have had.
But I think 2 years, for me, has brought a sense of understanding. She had to go, for reasons I'll never be able to understand. Her brief life forever shaped me, as a person and a mother. She is always a part of me, and because of her I am able to experience this life more fully and deeply.
I feel like I don't have to write it out anymore, have to repeat my grief and make it known. It's something small, something I hold close to me. It's personal and beautiful and mine.
So I may still come to this corner of the woods every once in a while, to write and reflect and connect with you other baby loss mama's and daddies.
I may also spend my time going on spontaneous adventures and working the closing shift and taking pictures and writing poetry, which is ok too
Either way, I nod my head to you, as you sit over there in your grief and I stand here in mine.
Life has a funny way of changing when you least expect it. The thing you once thought was impossible has happened.
My heart is more full then I ever thought possible on that day 2 years ago when my baby died
And even still, there is a tiny piece missing, the size of her
I am just learning to cover that hole with so much love, to make the aching just a little easier

One Year Later

One year...
How is that possible? It feels like only yesterday I was sitting in that hospital room, receiving the news that I thought would end my world. That my Mia was gone.
I was broken. Something inside of me snapped.
For months I crumbled, continuing my darkest decent.
It was in December when I decided I didn't want to live anymore.
It was in February when the strings inside of me broke and I was sitting in a pew at my church and sobbing.
Ever since that day in February, things began to change.
And now I'm here, a year later, something I didn't even imagine possible at month one, or six months.
And I'm doing ok.
Of course I think about how things could have been different, but I have days now when I can think clearly and realize that it was never not going to be like this.
The journey of losing Mia has made me a different person than I would have been if she was here. Maybe I would have liked that person better, but I'm not here.
Instead of changing diapers, I'm going back to school.
Instead of scheduling birthday parties and play dates, I'm scheduling counseling appointments and trips to the grocery store, where I buy enough food to feed only one.
Mia's death broke me, but her life saved me. Because of her short, beautiful existence, I am a different woman than I would have been otherwise.
 I'm stronger, and gentler. The impact of her short life is making ripples, spreading out.
She makes me beautiful. She makes me strong. She makes me a mother.
And yes, even though the pain of losing her has been unspeakably awful, and while I would have given anything for it not to have happened, her short life forever changed mine, and I am grateful. I wouldn't change a thing.
So here I am, one year later, blessed.

I love you, baby girl. The light of your life will not go out, and your life forever changed mine.

7 Months

I imagine she would look like me, with blonde curls and wide eyes full of curiosity.
She would have my tender heart and her daddy's tough spirit. She would be reckless and dangerous, just like her father, which would give her mother a heart attack.
She would have the best giggle, and her smile would light up a room.
She would be a daddy's girl, with a soft spot for her mama.
She would be stubborn and opinionated but with a charm that got her out of any trouble, just like her daddy had.
She would be able to melt my heart.
She would be my world.
Cam would walk with her when she cried, colicky during the night, letting me sleep between feedings. His eyes would be bloodshot when I found him in the morning, but she would be sleeping on his chest, and he would have a smile on his face.
We would live in a little trailer, barely scraping by, but living off of love.
I can't imagine my life being more complete than it would be if I was with them.


But here's the thing, I'm not with them. For 7 long months I haven't been waking up for midnight feedings or holding our girl or watching her grow up in front of my eyes and seeing she has a great dislike for green beans but loves mixed berries. My acts of parenting have been reduced to these: sobbing into my pillow in the wee hours of the morning, her ashes sitting on my bookshelf. I held her once (for a few minutes) and I dressed her (In an outfit that was much too big for her tiny body, as we never expected her to be born so small) and we burned her (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) and I cried (all I know of her is grief)
And here's the crazy thing, I wouldn't take any of it back. I wouldn't trade any of the tears or the pain because those few moments I got with her (that didn't seem long enough), they were magical.
It's 7 months out and this time around I felt like my body remembered before my mind did. Usually it's the other way around. Usually this date is marked on my calendar, the only day unscheduled, and when the day comes I sit for it, upright, tall, perfect posture, taking a warrior position as if I can fight against the emotional pain that comes along with this day.
I grew tired and cried when I was in the shower or in bed or watching TV or just sitting on the couch. I felt like I was walking around with the flu, though I'm not sick.
And then today came...
My first anniversary alone...
I don't know how this is supposed to work... I'm sitting here, chewing on my lip, trying to decide what to do (I've been terribly indecisive as well, standing in front of the open fridge for nearly half an hour before deciding I want take out), wondering how I am supposed to deal with this day.
I'm not there to hold my girl or kiss her face or watch her grow up.
He's not here to share it with me, to hold me while I cry, to remember her too
So I do the only thing I know how to do
I let the tears fall (Grief is all I have left of them) and I pull her ashes out from behind the stack of books I'd purposefully set there so I didn't have to look at them every day and remember what I lost, and I turn on some music and order that takeout and turn off the phone
And then I fall onto my bed and have a good cry

I miss you, sweet Mia girl. I love you. Happy 7 month birthday