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

The Double Life

I haven't had much time to write recently.
Life seems to be spinning so fast, and I can barely stop to catch my breath.
The world keeps turning and while my heart is still broken over the loss of my little girl, its a different kind of pain.
I mentioned her the other day, in a conversation with a woman I barely knew. She asked if I had any children and I said that I did, a daughter. She asked me her name and I said it was Mia and I didn't mention that she had died and I walked away from that conversation feeling both like a liar, for refusing to admit that my daughter was dead, and feeling comforted because for the first time I got to mention her name and talk about her the way any other proud mama would gush about their baby, and it wasn't surrounded by pain and sorrow like the conversations usually are when I bring up my daughter.
Life continues and I am learning what it means to live again and it's hard to believe that it was just over a year ago that I had her with me, that Cam and I were sitting around the table barely understanding how to love each other again.
I never thought I would be here, and when I heard those other baby loss mama's talk about how the pain never really went away but it changed forms I would laugh.
I had just buried the love of my life and my child and how dare anyone tell me that I would ever feel anything besides stabbing pain.
But I did. I do. My conversations are centered around things other than the loss of my family. I get to talk about things like love and I get to stress out about things that need to get done and try to do a load of laundry before breakfast because I forgot to do it again and I'm out of underwear. And I get to do those things and be normal and then I get to come home and see Mia's memorial shelf and see the pink notebook I keep filled with letters to them and I get to fall into bed and say "I'm doing it, my loves. I made it through this whole day without feeling so sad and I'm living life again and while I don't think of you all the time you are always with me and I will always love you."
And sometimes it feels like I'm living a double life, the one where I miss my family and grieve over them and the one I live with everyone else where I keep my personal life personal and go out for drinks with new friends I met at work who don't know my story yet and don't know about Cam and Mia.
And sometimes I feel guilty about that but mostly I just feel like I'm moving forward in my grief.
And it's hard, to feel like I'm moving on and being happy without them, but I know that they will always be with me, and I am forever changed because of having loved them.

Saying goodbye

Today was hard...
Sometimes these days come out of nowhere and they hit you over the head, unexpected like. It's easy to forget what these days feel like.
Its not like I'm hysterical or that I find it impossible to get out of bed today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to explain.
This morning I went to the bus station and said goodbye to some good friends of mine who are leaving on a trip. A trip Cam and Amelia and I were supposed to be on. But Cam is dead and Amelia is dead and I'm not going. and that sucks.
With everything in me I want to go but with everything in me I want to go under normal circumstances. I want to go with Cam and with my baby girl.
So as I said goodbye to my friends today, I stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks, not at all anticipating how hard this was going to be. Standing there with my backpack, that should have been me. I should have had Mia on my hip, her favorite blanket and pacifier in my backpack. I should be wondering about whether or not she'll sleep through most of the long bus ride. Instead I don't get to worry about any of those things and to me, today, that seems unspeakably cruel.
***
I'm leaving in a week, for a vacation to the ocean. I thought I knew where I wanted to scatter Mia's ashes but lately the idea of taking them with me and scattering them in the ocean sounds more and more like what I want to do. I'm not sure if I'll do it yet. I'm not even sure if I'll pack the little jar containing her ashes in my suitcase, squished between my sundress and my bathing suit. But I'm open to the possibility. The idea of letting go doesn't sound as unbearable as it did in those early days, 10 months ago.
***
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing. I tend to get that feeling when I write here, which is why I was avoiding it for quite some time. I thought I was ready today but as I stare at this page and everything I've written I wonder if I am. Reading it all, it makes me feel so incomplete. lacking. like a liar because I write all these extravagant things and I write thoughtfully and in the end its simple.
I'm just a girl who lost her baby.

Living my truth

I haven't written here in days, weeks, maybe even months.
I find I don't know what to say. As I opened up this little blog for the first time in a long time today, I felt the obligation to write something.
Not something about my dead baby, or my dead baby's dead daddy, but about my life.
My life, the one that's not dead.
My life is good. It's filled with good, happy things. There's someone with whom I think I could possibly be in love with (But we're taking it VERY slow). I'm considering maybe scattering Mia's ashes at the end of this month, when I take a trip with my family up the mountain. Right after she died, I knew that was the place I wanted her ashes scattered and as the time approaches I'm not sure if I'm ready to let go yet, but we'll see.
My life is good. I'm good.
I don't know how often I'll be poking around this little space anymore. As I'm walking into my life (The one where, despite all odds, I am very much alive) I am learning to live in my truth. My truth is this: my baby died. Her father died. And I survived this.
And I carry this truth with me, out into the world, and as I carry it I find myself needing this space less and less.
So this is goodbye, for now. Hopefully, Lord willing, I'll be back again real soon.
Until then, know I am thinking about all of you, and sending my love
Go and live your truth

Release

It's been a while since I last posted.
I've been running from baby loss blogs, running from the voice in my head that says, "No, no, no, no, no, don't torture yourself!" that comes up whenever I read these blogs.
I've been running from the feeling that says I have to remember every single painful detail, and also running from the feeling that says I must forget every single detail.
There are moments though, sometimes for a second per day, sometimes longer, and these moments are peaceful. I can sit with the memory of what happened and not obsess over not taking enough pictures of Mia, or comparing my loss to that of other baby loss mama's or thinking I am absolutely insane. There are these moments that are so peaceful and all of a sudden all these other things don't matter and I can just sit with the memory of my baby.
***
I'm a week past 5 months and I am in awe that I made it this far. On the 5 month anniversary of losing Mia, I sobbed like I haven't before. I was sitting in church and I was thinking I was going to be fine. There was only one little part left, I hadn't cried yet, I would be good. And then... last section... I lost it. I was sobbing, inconsolable, a distraught mess just shaking as people around me stood to go through the final part of the service. And in my head there was this voice saying, "Em, you are being pathetic, wipe your tears away, stand up and freaking sing!" But lately, there's this gentler, motherly voice inside of me that whispers, "No. No, you can cry, even if you don't understand why. It's ok to cry." And this past Sunday/Monday, I was laying in bed at almost midnight and I couldn't stop the tears from coming. I shook and sobbed and i was a red eyed, snot filled nose, blubbering mess. And there was that voice again, "It's ok to cry."
It's not so much that I miss her, that there's this unfillable constant ache like there was in the first few months. Now it's more that I have to live my life without, that my life changed in a way that was so different then what I thought it would be. I thought I would be happy, relieved, ecstatic that all my hard work had paid off into this living manifestation of hope. I didn't think I would watch a dead baby be delivered. I didn't think that my whole identity was wrapped up in being a mother and after her death I had to figure out not only how to deal with this life changing situation but also trying to figure out who the heck I am now. I don't know who to be if I let go of the pain that is associated with all I know of motherhood.
***
I saw a medicine woman last week. It was a final leap of faith, a final desperate attempt. She told me this: "You've lived through something most people couldn't live through and you survived." I didn't understand that, mostly because i was just doing what needed to be done, and curling up and dying wasn't an option. But she told me a lot of people would have just given up, and I survived. I survived, I didn't curl up and die. And it's time to figure out how to truely live.
***
I haven't been in blog land for a while. I hope to visit here more often. As I'm sitting here this morning, still in my pajamas with a cup of tea, I'm finding this release has been good for me. Just saying her name and this recognition, it is therapuetic for me. It is that moment of peace, that moment where it's ok to be nothing more then just her mother.

Love you...Mean It

I haven't written here for a while. I have a feeling most of the posts I write here will begin like this. Because I'm not one who blogs regularly or often and so when I drop in it will be to say hello, to raise my candle in the air and whisper the words I repeat every day in my head, "I miss you, baby."
It's been 4 months. On the 10th it was 4 months.
I started working out to lose the weight i gained during pregnancy and i started eating right again and i'm doing all these things and i feel good and sometimes i'm so worried about fixing dinner and getting work done that i forget. sometimes it's a full day before I even nod a hello to this baby of mine.
but tonight is sad and i'm missing her. and i don't know what to say because i'm glad i'm not drowning in sorrow every day anymore but moving on and not consciously thinking of her every moment of every day feels like a betrayal.

4 months. is that all? has it only been that long? has it really been that long?

Sweet baby girl, I miss you. I love you. As I write those words and listen to them roll off my tongue as i speak them aloud i want to keep saying them, over and over. I love you, i love you, i love you. I mean it, so much. I hope you know that... i hope you knew how much i loved you.

Coming and Going

I wasn't going to write here anymore.
I made the crazy decision one morning while brushing my hair and pondered it some more while making breakfast for myself and drinking coffee and while i did the grocery shopping and as the silence wrapped it's way around my evening.
I wasn't going to write here anymore.
I made the decision that I was going to let go. I was going to be super woman, I was going to never speak the name of my daughter again.
I was a little delusional and crazy that day. it was also the day I wanted to get her ashes out of my house so much that I set her little jar of ashes on my back porch.
They are now back inside my house, by the way, back on my bookshelf.
I just wanted to get rid of her. I know that sounds cruel but I can't think of a better way to put it. I wanted to do some spring cleaning in my heart even though it's the end of November and I wanted to brush out all the cobwebs that have been there since she died and I wanted to think of her death not so much as her death.
I wanted to not be haunted by memories of my dead daughter.

As I'm sitting here now a lot has changed. Obviously, because I swore I wasn't going to write here anymore and I wasn't going to talk to any other baby loss mama's and I wasn't going to surround myself with stifling sadness.
I feel better. I spent time talking to friends who love me and praying and journaling and I did crazy, spontaneous things like going to the zoo when it was so cold I could see my breath and my cheeks turned pink, or dying my hair back to blonde - which was the color it was when Mia died - and making the effort to reconnect with old friends.

A lot has changed, and now I feel my heart whispering to me, "You can never let her go."
She's there when I look in the mirror every morning and she's there everytime I take a painful breath. Even when I didn't want to acknowledge her or my loss, she was there.

I don't know what this means for me or my little blog.
I'm not who I thought I was. She's not who I thought she was either.

this whole come back was actually inspired by Angie's post I don't know if that's what she meant for someone to get out of reading her post, but that's what i got.
thank you, Angie.

Transition

I saw this show a while ago, in the spring, when I just found out I was pregnant, when I was blissfully happy and complete.
One of the quotes I remember went something like "When my brother and I were younger, my dad used to take us out sailing. Sometimes we weren't moving, but we were always sailing."
I loved that quote, even then, full of happiness and wide eyed wonder, naivety and hope.

And then the baby I was carrying got sick, and then she died, and then I was left to wander through this life on my own.
For the past 2 months, and sometimes even now, I can't eat. I can't sleep, or think, or breathe. How is it possible to miss someone you never knew?

I was stuck. I remember waking up a few weeks ago (Weeks? Days?) and thinking, "Wow, it's November," not remembering the last half of September or any of October.
I was stuck. My wheels were spinning and mud was flying up and covering my hair and my clothes, covering my skin until I looked like brown sludge. I wasn't making any progress, just a mess.

I doubted my experience, as a mother, as her mother, as a woman. I doubted that what I had experienced was enough. After all, I never knew her, how could I be her mother? After all, i created her, she was created in a time of desperation and need, does that still make her real? Does that still make me her mother? I wondered about the mother's who watch as their children cling to life in the NICU, wondering if somehow seeing their children  makes them more of a mother.

Over the last week or so, I've began to feel my vehicle moving out from under the mud, the roar of the tires as they groan and ache, trying to release me from this pit of mud.

Sometimes I wonder if I want to move on. Sometimes I wonder if I really am. I haven't gone back to the places where my friends gather, and talk and laugh about things other then hospitals and dead babies.
But my friend told me today about her new boyfriend, and I listened and for once I didn't want to scream at her.
I feel like I'm moving on, and to be honest, that scares me to death.
I don't want to move on. What if moving on means forgetting? What if, in moving on, I take away some of the value of Amelia's life?
What if, in trusting my experiences, accepting that what happened happened, what if it means loosening my hold on her just a little? What if I lose her again? I already lost her once, I can't lost her memory. It's all I have left. Sometimes I'm not so sure i even have that.

I feel like I'm putting more trust in myself, in what happened. This is my truth, therefore it is enough. I'm worried that doing this will mean I'm letting go of her.

I'm slowly getting unstuck, or at least I feel that way. I feel change happening, on the inside, though it hasn't managed to peak it's shining face through to the outside yet.

I still miss her with everything I am. I still write about her everywhere, because I can't stop. I can't stop thinking about her.
But I'm picking myself up off the floor. I'm no longer weeping at every little thing, no longer screaming at people who don't understand, or who try to talk about something other then her.
My grief is in transition, I am in transition, and it's scary because I feel like, sometimes, transition means loosening my grip on her.

I'm getting unstuck. While I was still sailing, even when I was stuck, I am now starting to inch forward. I feel like gripping the rails of this boat, like even the slightest movement will make everything I've built up regarding her and her memory come crashing down.

I am in transition. I don't know how to be in transition, just like I didn't know how to be in grief.

How do you be in transition?