Grief, Unexpected

Grief is a strange and funny thing. I've heard it said that grief comes in waves, and it never truly goes away. In my short time being a "griever" of a very close, personal loss (like everyone, I've lost other loved ones I was very close to, but never someone who I had such an intense connection to), I certainly feel that statement is true. Some days, even a few of those early days shortly after Osias died, don't always seem that bad. They are the days when I can think positive and focus on the fact that he's living it up in a far better place than this world could ever be to him. The other days are the ones everyone expects us to have after losing a child, the ones filled with dread and crippling sorrow, the ones that make it so dang hard to get out of bed. The ones that I'm just not allowed to be having now that I'm outside of the one-year window from my baby's death.

But I still do.

Another funny thing about grief is that it always seems to show up the strongest when it's unannounced and unexpected. Of course, we expect to have the really hard days on certain milestones, but those haven't always lived up to their dreaded expectation. It's those normal, run-of-the-mill days of no significance when grief likes to speed into the driveway with the horn honking and maybe even doing a doughnut or two in the grass for good measure. It knocks down the front door like the Kool-aid man and straps its heavy self onto me like one of those backpacks they wear during military training hikes. It can literally stop me in my tracks and throw off every plan I had for the day. Sometimes it sticks around for a week or so, sometimes only a matter of hours, but it's usually for two or three days at a time.

Grief is pretty unpredictable, in spite of being neatly organized into the list of stages all the books say we will (and certainly have!) go through. Not only with its inconsistent arrivals, but with its varying intensity. This week was a strange one. I started feeling that familiar smothered feeling, where grief becomes a physical affliction in addition to the emotional type. It caught me off guard, because I'd been doing so well lately and was getting pretty excited about some of the progress we've made toward our adoption and some other goals I have right now. It took me several hours to figure out what the problem was, because it wasn't the usual super-mega-intense sort of grief that typically makes me feel that way. This grief was a very strong ache, throwing me completely off my groove and making me feel that restless anxiety that something was wrong.

Of course something was wrong. Something will always be wrong, because I've outlived my child.

When I had a little bit of quiet time to stop and try to ponder what was going on, I realized that my emotions and my body were all geared up to struggle over some things I hadn't even been thinking about. We'd had family pictures taken last week for our personal use and to add to our adoption profile...and Osias wasn't in them. I'd had a fleeting thought about whether or not I should take a photo of him along for us to hold in the pictures, but I'd decided against it. All of a sudden, it felt so wrong that we had taken family pictures without our whole family in it. Beyond that, our older son's birthday is this week, and it's yet another occasion that we will be celebrating without our baby. It's weird to have my "youngest" child be turning four, even though my true youngest is much younger than that.

Christmas is right around the corner, which means there will be Christmas card photos of kids in their red and green jammies by the tree...but not all the kids will be there. There will be an empty stocking hanging by the fireplace, because there's no one here to excitedly dig through it on Christmas morning. It sucks.

I'm doing much better now, even though I'm sure the tone of this post suggests otherwise. I know there are tons and tons of things out there about grief and losing a child and all that, but I felt like maybe people need to know that there's more to it than one would expect. It's not all tears and dreary thoughts, but even the happiest smiles have a hint of sadness to them. It's a bittersweet existence, but it's one that I wouldn't trade for the world, because my grief is evidence of a life that once lived -- a precious life that I will always be thankful to have had in my life. So if you've lost a child and are feeling out of sorts or not normal, know that you are not alone. And if you haven't lost a child yourself but know someone who has, try not to hold them to your expectations of their grief.

When We Compare

If you're anything like me, you most likely make a difficult situation even worse by donning a poor attitude to go with it. Mine tends to fluctuate between anger and an intense, mopey kind of sadness. I allow my emotions to cripple me and prevent me from even looking for the hope and joy that can always be found in any situation. I often do this through comparing myself and/or my circumstances to others.

If you look for it, you will certainly find at least one news story every day about a child who has been abused, abandoned, or brutally murdered -- often by their own parents. Then, if you dig a little deeper, you can find mind-blowing and heart-sickening statistics about how many unborn babies are killed each year through abortion. You can even look around you in your own circle of acquaintances, and I can guarantee you'd find at least one person who doesn't appreciate or deserve the child/children they have.

But all these people who don't want or don't deserve children still manage to have them, while we who so desperately wanted our babies did not get to keep them. It isn't fair. It hurts. And that sort of thinking only wedges the gap between ourselves now and ourselves as we could be. There will always be people who are more or less deserving than we are, and comparison will get us nowhere we want to go. When I start comparing, it only makes me feel worse and sort of plants me into my grief instead of letting God lead me through my grief and toward something better. He's the One in charge, not me. He's the One who knows how the story ends, and I have no right to tell Him what is or isn't fair.

"Comparison is the thief of joy." It's a common saying, often plastered all over Pinterest boards or cutesy wall-hangings available on Etsy, but it is one I don't heed enough. I can't change my circumstances. I can't bring my babies back. But I can honor their short lives by truly living my own, with joy and hope. Let others walk their own paths, as I do my best to try to be graceful and avoid stumbling along my own. Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding...

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At the Beginning

I thought it would be nice to share a little backstory of why this blog crept into the blogosphere amongst the millions of others out there written by far better writers with much more to say.

When I was a little girl, I had every intention of growing up and becoming a mother to either three or five adorable, smart, and well-behaved children (hahahahahaa!). Before too many years had passed, Darling and I were well on our way to fulfilling that dream with two squishy-cheeked little ones and a positive pregnancy test in my shaking hand. This is it! I thought. I'm getting exactly what I wanted! But a week later, the bleeding started, and my time as a mother to three was already over.

Not long after that, I cautiously became excited to once again see that second pink line appear. I was determined to love this baby with all my heart, because I knew too well that this life could also end abruptly. The first half of the pregnancy went well and without complications, but our 20 week ultrasound and subsequent testing revealed our precious baby had a very serious heart defect. It felt like my own heart was broken, knowing the possibility of losing another loved baby was even greater now. He did great during his first heart surgery and recovered quickly enough to come home less than a month later, but was quickly readmitted to the hospital and faced yet another major heart surgery. He died of complications the following day.

Several months later, we were once again surprised by a positive pregnancy test. I think I was more optimistic this time than I had ever been before, because I'd already lived through the unthinkable loss of an infant and a baby I never even got to see. Surely I'd been through enough, and things were going to work out the way I wanted them to this time. But once again, a week later, a blood test confirmed we had lost our baby.

I don't know if there's a way to accurately describe what it feels like to have more children in Heaven than within arm's reach. I'm pretty certain the nonchalant "How many children do you have?" question fills me with more dread than any other. And sometimes, I ask God what I have done so horrible to deserve this. Basically, I host a little pity-party and whine, Why me?! I imagine I'm not alone in those feelings, which is the main reason this blog has come into existence. In our loneliest, most heartbreaking moments, I think we all need a reminder that we really aren't alone. If you've experienced infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth, infant or child loss, this is for you. Someone, somewhere knows what we are going through. We can't give up.

In a way, I guess you could say my dreams came true. I delivered and named three beautiful children; I've technically been a mother to five. And while I love my two living children so much that it hurts, it still feels like something -- like someone -- is missing from our family. I know there are three who will always be missing pieces of our lives, but it seems like there should still be someone here to fill that role. I'm not quite sure if this desire will ever be fulfilled by adoption or another biological child, but I do know that every storm is followed by a beautiful rainbow. I'm learning to trust the One who holds me through the storms, the One who will lead me to the rainbows.