I woke up today and I ached. I ached to feel the pressure that had been building in my womb, forming a new life. Instead, I felt empty.
But I got out of bed. I took my children to their soccer game. I cheered for them, felt the rush of adrenaline as their team moved the ball closer and closer to the goal. I jumped to my feet and shouted when they scored. And while I didn't take as many pictures as I usually do, I took some.
I wished my husband still had a reason to hover over me and argue about carrying a lawn chair. I wished I could act annoyed at his overprotectiveness, all while secretly being pleased. My heart ached some more. Today I was supposed to be pregnant. I was supposed to be thinking of names and nursery colors.
Yesterday I chatted with my children as they got ready for school. I took my four year old to the park and we watched trains go by and airplanes do flips in the sky above us. I was supposed to have my first OB appointment. I wished I was there, seeing my baby's tiny heartbeat for the very first time. My heart ached, longing for that moment that was never to be. I smiled at my daughter and helped her pick out Palace Pets from K-Mart. It pleased me to be able to spoil her a little bit.
I cooked dinner, excited to try something new in the electric pressure cooker I had forgotten on the counter weeks ago. It felt good to make a meal for my family, take care of them, be up and in my kitchen. And it felt horrible. Horrible that life goes on.
I am struggling and I am living. I get out of bed. I have good moments and bad moments. I laugh at jokes and suddenly cry at the drop of a hat. I want to be surrounded by my people and I want to be left completely alone.
The point is - I am grieving. But I'm also still living. So when I need to talk of my loss, please let me. Please don't tell me it happened for a reason. It may be true, but just let me grieve my loss. Please don't tell me that something better is coming. My heart wanted this thing. This baby. This life. I know God has a plan for me. I know He is working all things for my good, no matter how not good things feel right now. But I can still grieve.
Today a song we used to sing in King's Kids popped into my head. He turned my mourning into dancing again, He's lifted my sorrows. I can't stay silent, I must sing for His joy has come. I smiled as I tried to remember the words in Portuguese. I know His joy will come. I have no doubt of that. I still feel moments of joy when my children smile and my husband tells me he loves me. But I can still mourn my loss.
I can't rush this process. I can't stuff my feelings down and look ahead. We need to get past the idea that mourning and sadness are somehow bad things. Stuffing our feelings doesn't make us stronger. Working through them does. Working through my grief, allowing the feelings, and the process, is how I will get to better days.
I know the Lord is working all things for my good... but when I stuff my feelings and hasten this process, how would I ever see the good He can work in this? What was even the point of my baby's life if I don't take the time I need?
I wanted so much more time with this baby... I'm never going to get that time, this side of Heaven.
Soon life is going to take over, Senior Year events, soccer games, Girl Scouts, work, family trips... I'm not going to think of him just about every moment, hours will go by, then a day at a time, and then some day it could even be weeks. I know how this goes, we've done it before. I think about our child we lost thirteen years ago just about every time someone asks how many children I have and I answer four, so things don't get awkward. But I don't think about him every day anymore, or even every week.
So I know how it goes. And I know I need this time to mourn our loss.
I'm getting out of bed every day. So as long as I'm doing that, and as long as I'm laughing still, and cooking dinner, and taking my daughter to the park, and cheering on soccer games, and having pointless conversations about Starr Wars, and having good moments... please don't rush my grief.