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
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
Saturday, 30 March 2013
I need a little more time... (Happy Easter, my loves)
I want to scream.
This isn't fair.
Last night i sobbed into my pillow, missing my baby, and missing her daddy.
I feel so often like i can't breathe.
I'm choking on air thats not oxygen and suffocating and its messy and not at all graceful
But still i paste on a smile and help decorate Easter eggs and try to enjoy meals with family.
I feel like i'm faking it
I'm no stranger to death and yet everytime it strikes i cry out for more time
To say "i love you," one more time
To make things right
For one more hug and kiss
And yet, with every death, i sit here and long for more time
Let me hold you longer, sweet child of mine
Let me tell you i loved you once more, my first love
I would do it different. I would let go of my hurt and just love the way Mia, and Cam, deserved to be loved
Never enough time
I feel selfish on my knees begging for just one more minute
To hold them (my loves)
To tell them i love them (i love you, my darlings)
To just be with my family, whole and complete (no missing pieces)
I hope they both know the extent of my love
...
...
I let him name her. He picked Mia. I agreed only if her full name could be Amelia.
We only got these small moments of parenthood and i let him name her.
And now he gets to hold her
To kiss her and love her
His acts of parenthood far outweigh mine.
I wish it wasn't so.
...
...
Amelia Kadee, your first Easter is coming.
I was with my cousin today and her daughter at the mall
They walked into some toy store, with stuffed animals
I watched as my cousin helped her daughter choose a bear
I wished it was me
I want to choose a bear for my daughter
I felt such a poigant loss
I stepped outside the store, tears in my eyes
...
...
Tomorrow is Easter and i feel so broken
How can i rejoice when so much pain surrounds me?
I feel so out of place. Like i don't belong with all these walking, talking, happy people.
I miss you, Cam
I miss you, Amelia Kadee, my Mia girl
My love for you both will never fade
You are my family.
Happy Easter, loves
This isn't fair.
Last night i sobbed into my pillow, missing my baby, and missing her daddy.
I feel so often like i can't breathe.
I'm choking on air thats not oxygen and suffocating and its messy and not at all graceful
But still i paste on a smile and help decorate Easter eggs and try to enjoy meals with family.
I feel like i'm faking it
I'm no stranger to death and yet everytime it strikes i cry out for more time
To say "i love you," one more time
To make things right
For one more hug and kiss
And yet, with every death, i sit here and long for more time
Let me hold you longer, sweet child of mine
Let me tell you i loved you once more, my first love
I would do it different. I would let go of my hurt and just love the way Mia, and Cam, deserved to be loved
Never enough time
I feel selfish on my knees begging for just one more minute
To hold them (my loves)
To tell them i love them (i love you, my darlings)
To just be with my family, whole and complete (no missing pieces)
I hope they both know the extent of my love
...
...
I let him name her. He picked Mia. I agreed only if her full name could be Amelia.
We only got these small moments of parenthood and i let him name her.
And now he gets to hold her
To kiss her and love her
His acts of parenthood far outweigh mine.
I wish it wasn't so.
...
...
Amelia Kadee, your first Easter is coming.
I was with my cousin today and her daughter at the mall
They walked into some toy store, with stuffed animals
I watched as my cousin helped her daughter choose a bear
I wished it was me
I want to choose a bear for my daughter
I felt such a poigant loss
I stepped outside the store, tears in my eyes
...
...
Tomorrow is Easter and i feel so broken
How can i rejoice when so much pain surrounds me?
I feel so out of place. Like i don't belong with all these walking, talking, happy people.
I miss you, Cam
I miss you, Amelia Kadee, my Mia girl
My love for you both will never fade
You are my family.
Happy Easter, loves
Tuesday, 26 March 2013
I love you, my darlings
I haven't been here in a while.
I'm sorry. I am.
Sometimes i forget why i'm writing. For her.
But also for him, now.
I warn you now this won't seem real.
"You're crazy, Em," you'll say, "you're just a sad babyloss mama desperate for attention."
I tell you now this is the truth. I wouldn't believe it if i hadn't lived it.
But is true. Like a horror story i can't escape, every word is true.
...
...
A month ago (give or take a few days) i stood witness to my second death in 6 months.
He died. Mia's daddy. A car accident. He went quick, they said. He's at peace, they said. He's with his daughter, i said. Is it bad that I'm a little jealous? That he gets to be with her and i'm here, without them both? I am here alone, remembering both of them seems like too big a burden for my shoulders to bear.
I miss my Amelia, my Mia.
And i miss Cam, her daddy.
...
...
I saw her today. Well not really her. I'll never see her again. But, at dinner, the girl at the next table, with blonde braids, had Down Syndrome.
I wanted it to be her. I want the little girl in the resturant and the little girl in Churh and the little girl at the park to be her. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.
I want my baby.
I should be buying her an Easter dress and putting bows in her hair. She should be sitting up and smiling. She should be smiling at me.
...
...
And so I sit here alone tonight. Believe my story, or don't. But its the truth, my truth.
I love you my darlings.
I'm sorry. I am.
Sometimes i forget why i'm writing. For her.
But also for him, now.
I warn you now this won't seem real.
"You're crazy, Em," you'll say, "you're just a sad babyloss mama desperate for attention."
I tell you now this is the truth. I wouldn't believe it if i hadn't lived it.
But is true. Like a horror story i can't escape, every word is true.
...
...
A month ago (give or take a few days) i stood witness to my second death in 6 months.
He died. Mia's daddy. A car accident. He went quick, they said. He's at peace, they said. He's with his daughter, i said. Is it bad that I'm a little jealous? That he gets to be with her and i'm here, without them both? I am here alone, remembering both of them seems like too big a burden for my shoulders to bear.
I miss my Amelia, my Mia.
And i miss Cam, her daddy.
...
...
I saw her today. Well not really her. I'll never see her again. But, at dinner, the girl at the next table, with blonde braids, had Down Syndrome.
I wanted it to be her. I want the little girl in the resturant and the little girl in Churh and the little girl at the park to be her. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.
I want my baby.
I should be buying her an Easter dress and putting bows in her hair. She should be sitting up and smiling. She should be smiling at me.
...
...
And so I sit here alone tonight. Believe my story, or don't. But its the truth, my truth.
I love you my darlings.
Sunday, 24 February 2013
Thoughts on Missing my Mia
I miss my baby.
I want to write about something else, something important, something about my life, maybe, or my other relationships, a poem or a song... something!
But all I can think about is her, missing her.
I was reading a book yesterday and one of the lines hit me. It said, "I lost something I never knew I needed." In the book, she was talking about her mother who died when she was a baby.
But I lost something I never knew I needed, too
I never knew how much I would miss Mia
I never knew how much I would miss having faith in my body (Now I can only stare at this lump of flesh with a look of pure betrayal.)
I never knew how much I would miss that blind hope, that innocence, that naive nature that comes from living in a world where babies don't die.
I lost something I never knew I needed. I never knew I needed her. But now that she's gone my heart is empty.
***
Yesterday I got to be alone. Cam (Mia's daddy) went out and left me in the house alone to do whatever I wanted.
My first reaction was, "Oh my goodness, what the heck am I going to do? I'm on my own. I can do anything I want. There's nothing that I have to do. Don't leave me!"
Early yesterday morning a friend of ours came by the house. He was collecting bottles for a road trip he and some other friends were planning for this summer. It was a road trip Cam and I were supposed to go on, our baby between us in the back seat. After I lost Mia I didn't even want to think about going anywhere, especially not a trip I had planned to go on with my baby. So this friend came by, and I am so thankful Cam was still home. I hid in our room. I know, it wasn't the mature, adult thing to do but I did it anyway. Cam talked to him, handed him our bottles and sent him on his way.
I don't feel like I wish I was still going. I can't imagine going, actually. It just makes me wish Mia was still alive, that I was able to do those things, that I felt like I could get up and go on a roadtrip.
Cam left and I had the house to myself. Despite my panic attack earlier, the silence wasn't as bad as I had expected.
I had a nap (Glorious!) and did some laundry, and I dug into a new book (the one I mentioned above) and I missed Mia.
***
I tell myself I'm going to be fine. Some moments I even believe it. There had to have been a reason Mia left us so soon, and while I don't understand why I have to believe there's a reason. I throw myself into growing and patching up the broken places and I tell my story - Mia's story - and people tell me things about how strong I am and how I survived the unthinkable and all this beautiful stuff and I think maybe - just maybe - something good can come from this tragedy and I can use my story to inspire others, to do something good, to make Mia's life (and death) matter.
Other days I'm a ball on the floor. My heart aches with the longing for my baby. I wail and groan and flail around. I scream at anyone who will listen how this isn't fair.
Because it's not fair.
Because Mia should be here with me.
Because this shouldn't have happened to someone like me.
I miss her today. I missed her when all my friends were talking about their roadtrip. I missed her when a girl I know announced she was pregnant, and bleeding. She was going in for more tests to try and figure out why she was bleeding, and if she was losing the baby. And while I feel for her, and I don't want her to go through this I got mad. I wrung my hands and tried to count to 10. A part of me feels like I want to be the only one with a dead baby. No, you can't have a dead baby, it's mine! And I know that's selfish, and mean, and hateful, but as I sat there with all my grief and heard friends say they will be thinking about and praying for this friend and her baby I wanted to scream, "What about my baby?!?" I missed her when I was going through the motions of normalcy, and in that moment when someone mentioned something and I got a little spooked and made a mad dash for the restroom, tripping over my heels.
I missed her today. I missed her everytime I took a breath, and when I held my friend's daughter who would have been the same age as Mia.
I missed her.
I miss you Mia.
***
How are you? And what are your thoughts on missing? Does it get any easier?
I want to write about something else, something important, something about my life, maybe, or my other relationships, a poem or a song... something!
But all I can think about is her, missing her.
I was reading a book yesterday and one of the lines hit me. It said, "I lost something I never knew I needed." In the book, she was talking about her mother who died when she was a baby.
But I lost something I never knew I needed, too
I never knew how much I would miss Mia
I never knew how much I would miss having faith in my body (Now I can only stare at this lump of flesh with a look of pure betrayal.)
I never knew how much I would miss that blind hope, that innocence, that naive nature that comes from living in a world where babies don't die.
I lost something I never knew I needed. I never knew I needed her. But now that she's gone my heart is empty.
***
Yesterday I got to be alone. Cam (Mia's daddy) went out and left me in the house alone to do whatever I wanted.
My first reaction was, "Oh my goodness, what the heck am I going to do? I'm on my own. I can do anything I want. There's nothing that I have to do. Don't leave me!"
Early yesterday morning a friend of ours came by the house. He was collecting bottles for a road trip he and some other friends were planning for this summer. It was a road trip Cam and I were supposed to go on, our baby between us in the back seat. After I lost Mia I didn't even want to think about going anywhere, especially not a trip I had planned to go on with my baby. So this friend came by, and I am so thankful Cam was still home. I hid in our room. I know, it wasn't the mature, adult thing to do but I did it anyway. Cam talked to him, handed him our bottles and sent him on his way.
I don't feel like I wish I was still going. I can't imagine going, actually. It just makes me wish Mia was still alive, that I was able to do those things, that I felt like I could get up and go on a roadtrip.
Cam left and I had the house to myself. Despite my panic attack earlier, the silence wasn't as bad as I had expected.
I had a nap (Glorious!) and did some laundry, and I dug into a new book (the one I mentioned above) and I missed Mia.
***
I tell myself I'm going to be fine. Some moments I even believe it. There had to have been a reason Mia left us so soon, and while I don't understand why I have to believe there's a reason. I throw myself into growing and patching up the broken places and I tell my story - Mia's story - and people tell me things about how strong I am and how I survived the unthinkable and all this beautiful stuff and I think maybe - just maybe - something good can come from this tragedy and I can use my story to inspire others, to do something good, to make Mia's life (and death) matter.
Other days I'm a ball on the floor. My heart aches with the longing for my baby. I wail and groan and flail around. I scream at anyone who will listen how this isn't fair.
Because it's not fair.
Because Mia should be here with me.
Because this shouldn't have happened to someone like me.
I miss her today. I missed her when all my friends were talking about their roadtrip. I missed her when a girl I know announced she was pregnant, and bleeding. She was going in for more tests to try and figure out why she was bleeding, and if she was losing the baby. And while I feel for her, and I don't want her to go through this I got mad. I wrung my hands and tried to count to 10. A part of me feels like I want to be the only one with a dead baby. No, you can't have a dead baby, it's mine! And I know that's selfish, and mean, and hateful, but as I sat there with all my grief and heard friends say they will be thinking about and praying for this friend and her baby I wanted to scream, "What about my baby?!?" I missed her when I was going through the motions of normalcy, and in that moment when someone mentioned something and I got a little spooked and made a mad dash for the restroom, tripping over my heels.
I missed her today. I missed her everytime I took a breath, and when I held my friend's daughter who would have been the same age as Mia.
I missed her.
I miss you Mia.
***
How are you? And what are your thoughts on missing? Does it get any easier?
Tuesday, 19 February 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 14 January 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 January 2013
2013
I made it through that first year without her.
Part of me wanted to cling to 2012, to stop the calender from changing. 2012 was all I had of her.
But I can't stop time, as much as I may want to, and it's 2013 now.
2013, a time, I hope, to get back up on my feet.
2013, I hope, will be the year I learn how to live again.
2013, I hope, will be the year i change out of these grief clothes and pick myself up off the floor.
2013, I hope, will be the year I make myself into a person worth loving, a person worth being.
I'm sitting here in yoga pants and a tee shirt that is much too big on me. There's a drink on the corner of my desk, because I need one.
I haven't slept in weeks, and on the 30th of December I was filled with such grief and longing for my baby girl I cried out, saying I just want to die.
I don't know how to live in a world where my daughter doesn't.
And so I keep running, running over all these pieces of glass that symbolize my past and they cut into my feet and make them bleed but if I stop running I'll have to face everything I'm so skillfully avoiding and I'll have to come face to face with my grief and turn it over in my hands and examine it and maybe even invite it in for some tea and let it stay a while so I can get to know it a little better. Maybe grief will even spend the night so I can examine it in it's sleep, if grief ever sleeps.
For that reason alone - because facing my demons scares me almost as much as delivering a dead baby did - I will keep running.
I'll sit here and take another sip of my drink and wrap my sweater around me a little tighter to ward off the chill. I'll turn on loud music so I can no longer hear death knocking at my door. And in avoiding I will be running.
I hope in 2013 I can learn to stop running.
Part of me wanted to cling to 2012, to stop the calender from changing. 2012 was all I had of her.
But I can't stop time, as much as I may want to, and it's 2013 now.
2013, a time, I hope, to get back up on my feet.
2013, I hope, will be the year I learn how to live again.
2013, I hope, will be the year i change out of these grief clothes and pick myself up off the floor.
2013, I hope, will be the year I make myself into a person worth loving, a person worth being.
I'm sitting here in yoga pants and a tee shirt that is much too big on me. There's a drink on the corner of my desk, because I need one.
I haven't slept in weeks, and on the 30th of December I was filled with such grief and longing for my baby girl I cried out, saying I just want to die.
I don't know how to live in a world where my daughter doesn't.
And so I keep running, running over all these pieces of glass that symbolize my past and they cut into my feet and make them bleed but if I stop running I'll have to face everything I'm so skillfully avoiding and I'll have to come face to face with my grief and turn it over in my hands and examine it and maybe even invite it in for some tea and let it stay a while so I can get to know it a little better. Maybe grief will even spend the night so I can examine it in it's sleep, if grief ever sleeps.
For that reason alone - because facing my demons scares me almost as much as delivering a dead baby did - I will keep running.
I'll sit here and take another sip of my drink and wrap my sweater around me a little tighter to ward off the chill. I'll turn on loud music so I can no longer hear death knocking at my door. And in avoiding I will be running.
I hope in 2013 I can learn to stop running.
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