I have decided that I am unapologetically not myself again, not okay again, and NOT over it. I'm a little hollow. And a part of me probably always will be. I expect that with time and effort that space will continue to shrink from what it was when I found out there was emptiness where I had seen my child's heart beating strongly only three days earlier. But, as my child should have grown and changed, the sense of hollowness grew and changed too. And it spread. From my own body to the extra bedroom that we called a nursery for a few weeks, the living room without toys, the Christmas tree without presents under it, to our car without a car seat, our vacations, conversations, spontaneous date nights, and unplanned trips to the grocery store (where I avoid the baby section if at all possible); I am constantly aware that there is a hole where my child would have been. And even another child will never truly fill it. It is a feeling you learn to coexist with. You learn to fill it with your prayers and tears and little remembrances. Even when you are happy. You learn that it seems less painful to ignore it, but the pain of forgetting is just as bad. And you feel that if you don't remember, the world will forget, and your momma bear heart just can't let that happen. Maybe there will come a day when I am not painfully aware of the hollow space in my heart, but that is not today. And that's okay.
Some days are easier than others, but every day is a battle. A battle not to let grief and bitterness overwhelm me. A battle to pray for peace and joy, when I just want to wallow. A battle to be happy without forgetting. A battle to be "normal." A battle to be authentic without being a burden to those around me. A battle to have my child recognized without making others feel uncomfortable. A battle to remember who I am when my life feels defined by the hole in my heart and my empty arms. A battle between having a momma's heart, and no tiny hand to hold. A battle to live in this reality and not the one that "should have been." A battle to remember that God is good. He is ALWAYS good. A battle to reconcile that life is easier in some ways without, but I would have given everything to have it the hard way, which is what makes it so hard. A battle between being ashamed of my emotions, and in love with the fierce, undying love I have for my child. It would have been easier not to love so hard. But love is hard and love is brave, and life is precious, and Baby, I will ALWAYS love you. I couldn't stop if I tried!
I don't need people to be constantly grieving with me or talking about it (although, acknowledging it means the world to me). I don't need people to walk on egg-shells around me. I just need you to know that I'm still trying to figure out how to live with this hole in my heart, and I need your patience. I need you to know that miscarriage is almost as big a part of my life as motherhood is to those with children here on earth. I need you to know that I have not forgotten my baby, so maybe you won't either. I need you to know that I'm not ashamed to still be sad, and I need you to be okay with that. I need you to know that I choose to wear my baby's birthstone because sometimes it's easier to carry my love and grief around my neck than it is to hold them in my heart. And I need you to know that it's a December birthstone, not August for the due date, because my baby was born on December 9, 2016. He or she was born into presence their heavenly Father, and that is my single greatest comfort. My baby is real, even if no-one on this earth ever saw him or her for more that a few seconds on an ultrasound or held him or her outside of my body. My baby is in heaven. My baby is real. And so is my pain, even after all this time, so please, be patient with me. And maybe keep some tissues handy.
And y'all, this has been so hard, but God has been so faithful. He has been patient with me in my anger and bitterness and rage. He has held me as I grieved and brought me comfort. His truth has comforted me in ways that niceties and clichés could never do. He has moved mountains for me during this difficult journey to bring hope and healing. He is SO good. Parent's of miscarried little ones wait for their rainbow babies: the promise after the storm. But with faith in Christ, I have not had to wait for another child to have hope because I have had the promises of God every step of the way. It has not made it easy. It has not taken away all the pain and confusion, but it has taken some, and it has given me comfort during my darkest days because my hope is not found in a child in my arms, but the Child in the manger: born to bear my burden and take my sins. I trust in Him who gives and takes away, and I know that he holds both me and my child in his arms.
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