It's been a while since I've checked in. Well, it's true about the second year being harder. The past few weeks have proven so. I wish they hadn't, I didn't need any proof. I didn't know there was pain like this. And speaking of it makes my heart wince and go numb. It needs a break. But one thing I've learned is even though I don't think I can take another breath, or live another minute in such a raw emotional state, I can. I prove that to myself every day, sometimes every minute. It's both deeply depressing and hopeful at the same time. Depressing that I have a long long long time to miss my babies, a life time to live without them. Yet also hopeful to feel that I have hurt this much and continue to live. It proves that I am getting stronger everyday, strong enough to bear this immense burden. Strong enough to fake it every day and carry on conversations with people when my head is not in it. Strong enough to raise my other children and begin to see that life has beautiful moments still. I hate that I get to bear this, but what choice do I have? I think of my angels, I would do anything for them, so yes, if it means be the one who goes through this, then I would do it for them.
Lately I have been lonely as ever. In many ways I've had to shut down. I left most of my support groups, I stopped visiting the graves, I stopped wearing my angels' birthstones, I guess I hoped that it would all go away if I ignored it. It hasn't. In some ways it feels refreshing, and in some ways it kills me. I am searching for ME. I miss the innocence and care free nature of the old me. And I'm still discovering who this new me is. I guess I'm mourning not only my children, but the loss of innocence. I continually remember thoughts and memories I had before I knew death. When I see that I lived 30 years and brought 4 live babies home without understanding life the way I now do, I really struggle being angry at myself. Sever resentment. I wouldn't give my new insight away for anything, but sometimes I'm so jealous when I see other people living in that blissful ignorance. I long to live life carefree and ignorant to the fact that babies- what are supposed to be the most joyous event of one's life, could be the most devastating. I wish I didn't have to check multiple times a night to see if my children are still alive. I wish I didn't constantly tell myself when I send my kids off somewhere that this might be the last time I ever see them. I hate living like I'm bracing myself for being blindsided.
God gave me the gift both times of knowing my babies were going (or already gone) before it was actually certain. I kept getting this recurring thought that Tesslee was dead, even though it wasn't something I would accept... That night laying in bed, knowing she was dead, but feeling her kick all night long, there is no describing that pain, wishing so desperately for your child to be alive that your body wills itself to create the sensation of the baby kicks you knew and loved... and missed so deeply. And even though I saw Vick on the screen and my Dr. told me everything looked fine, not to give up hope, I already knew somehow that he would slip away. I cannot even imagine getting that news without the spiritual prompting to prepare me for it. I hope that the burden of carrying babies you will not get to raise in this life is worthy of some unfathomable reward in the next life. I've kind of resorted to thinking anything that will make me feel better in the moment to relieve some of the pain. So far it works temporarily. I like the thought of having some amazing reward for enduring this. Then I think of the Millenium and that I will be able to finish carrying them and raise them perfectly in a perfect world, that is reward itself.
Sometimes I don't think I can go on. Some nights it is too much and I get down on my knees and sob and just feel the excruciating pain and let it all flow out through my tears. I wish it could be taken away. I've had plenty of people tell me that if I would only allow the Savior to carry the burden for me then it would be easier. But they don't know. They don't know that sometimes the trial is to feel the pain, to endure the pain, to know what it is like to suffer like this. That is how compassion and empathy are developed. My heart is ripped out at the indescribable pain of child loss in any of its forms. My heart hurts desperately for the parents who are not able to conceive, and the families who suffer through infertility and secondary infertility. And I ache so deeply for the single adults who long for the dream they have of getting married and having children of their own. I'm working on finding a way to balance grief and life. The scale has been tipped, and is very wobbly right now. I hope that someday I will figure out how to successfully live the role of mom of 6: 4 here and 2 in Heaven. It's so hard.
