Right Where I Am: 3 Years, 2 Months & 2 Years, 4 Months

Many thanks to Angie from Still Life With Circles for sharing this incredible project. Such an awesome idea. The Right Where I Am Project encourages readers to share where they currently are in their grief. Whether it be fresh, years down the road, or somewhere in between. I have read so many different bloggers stories; their reflections on where they are, and where they've been. It's been incredibly insightful and comforting, knowing I'm not alone on this journey.

I recently watched a great movie…Rabbit Hole. If you haven't watched it, you should. There is a scene between mother and daughter about grief. This was so powerful to me. It broke me and reassured me at the same time. It broke me, because it affirmed what I already knew…my grief over the death of my babies will never end. I will carry it with me always. It also reassured me, because I knew that even though I would always carry this heartache around, it was what I had instead of my babies. It reminds me they were real. It linked us, and that's okay.

I know I will do no justice to this scene, so here it is…

Today, I feel somewhere in the middle. It's been just over 3 years since I miscarried with baby #1. It seems impossible that it's been that long. My children died within exactly 10 months of each other. Becoming pregnant with our daughter Grace was what helped me along in my grief with my miscarriage. I stumbled along, but becoming pregnant so quickly afterward brought renewed feelings of excitement and hope for our future.

March 19, 2008 and January 19, 2009. I will remember both of those days for the rest of my life. I remember each with clarity, like it was yesterday.

My grief is no longer what it was. In the days after, it was raw, it was ugly, and it hurt like no other. And it got worse before it got better.

Today, it's still sad, and it always will be. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere, when I least expect it. I even ask myself, "Where did that come from?" It usually disappears as quickly as it came, and I move on with whatever I was doing. Usually.

I do have dark days from time to time. Days that overwhelm me, days where everything goes wrong, and I just want to climb in bed and stay awhile, and sometimes I do. But in the words of Longfellow, "Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary."

I still think about my babies every single day. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've grown. I can carry on conversations about them without losing it. I can look at babies, even hold them. Boxes of baby wipes don't diminish me to tears anymore.

It does still wear on me though. Endless Facebook posts about friends and their new bundles of joy get difficult. The "Hide" feature has come in quite handy.

I still have a hard time seeing little dark haired girls around the same age that Gracie would be. They brings tears to my eyes, and whisk me away to thoughts of her, and what she would look like, and what kind of little personality she would have.

The hardest is seeing parents upset with their children. I watched a Mother scream at her young child one evening over something so completely stupid. It took everything within me to keep my mouth shut. I wanted to shake her. I wanted her to feel one ounce of the daily pain I feel so she would get it. I don't think that will ever go away.

My life is vastly different now. I am different. I'm no longer the person I was before, and that's okay. It's made me stronger in some ways, weaker in others. It's deepened my compassion towards others. It has also made me deeply aware at how trivial some things are. Along with that an aggravation with people who think their life is falling to pieces over the most minor of things. If they only knew.

Most friends have changed, and I'm still coming to grips with that. I'm not bitter anymore, but I still ask why. I see it in other peoples loss also. Friends stop calling, writing, and coming around. Why? It's like we have a dead baby disease. It's heart breaking. When tragedy hits, you really do find out who your true friends are. I am immensely thankful for mine.

I am marching onward though, somewhere in this in between. Waiting…some days patiently, others not so much, for what life will bring. Hoping, hoping from the depths of my soul, for my deepest desire.

Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul,

and sings the tune without the words,

and never stops at all.