The Grieving Mother vs. Writer's Block

It's been a very long time since I've written anything. I started this blog with the grand idea of writing several times a week, posting things full of witty insight and blunt honesty. But that didn't happen.

Why?

I think the reality is, I feel much like a broken record. I feel like I live in the movie Groundhog's Day. How many different ways can I phrase just how much losing a baby sucks? How many different ways are there to explain how my soul was crushed, my heart shattered? Because in the end, it's the same story told a different way. 

But, to anyone reading this that's been in my shoes, you know exactly what I'm talking about don't you? Because that's your reality every. single. day. You wake up, you put on a smile, get dressed, take care of your family, go about your normal day. But on the inside, there's always that part of you that's screaming, "What about my baby?" 

Our world has been forever changed and so many people fail to see it. It's like suddenly the grass is pink and the sky is purple and you wonder why you're the only one that sees it. So you start faking it 'til you make it. Slowly but surely, you assimilate back into the real world. You pretend the grass is still green and the sky is still blue. And eventually, you almost manage to convince yourself the grass really is green. 

Almost.

Then something happens. You see a baby or a glowing, pregnant woman. Maybe you're at the playground and you hear a mother calling a name- the name of the child you lost, a name you never seem to hear spoken. And it twists up your gut. I'll never forget that day at the playground when I heard a parent calling for "Henry!" and I immediately had to find this child named Henry. A name that I'd never get to call out at the playground. And suddenly, the grass is pink again. 

And this cycle continues endlessly. And it probably always will to some extent.

So I haven't written. Because honestly, what's left to say that I haven't already said? 

It's been nine months since we lost Henry. It's been two years since we lost Alex. It's gotten better, easier. But it still hurts. I still feel angry and sad. Not all the time. Maybe not even every day. But I've had to patch myself together the best way I can for my family and for myself. 

In that nine months, we conceived another baby only to lose that hope just a few weeks later. That baby would have arrived just a few days before Christmas. Sometimes it blows me away to think that I could have been nearly ready to have a whole other baby in the amount of time that's passed since Henry. How has it been that long already?

On the other hand, it feels like ages ago. That long day in the hospital when he was delivered. That windy, snowy day when we buried him, it sometimes feels like years ago. So much has happened.  Yet I remember it like it was yesterday.

I've been so thankful to become a part of Back In His Arms Again, to be given a voice, to hopefully try and help someone else experiencing this same thing. I have met some absolutely amazing women through the Mother to Mother group who have forever changed my life. They've lifted me up and prayed with me. Sometimes it amazes me that even though I know so little about some of them, I feel as if I know them better than so many other people in my life simply because we share a very strong common bond. I could say just about anything to them about this experience and they would know exactly what I was talking about.

As I battle with trying to move forward, trying to have another baby, I'm constantly fearful and anxious. And hopeful. And optimistic. What an awkward combination of emotions. 

I have about four unfinished blog posts I've attempted to write over the last few months, I really hope that I can finish them because actually I quite like what I've written. But I often times just simply feel too stuck to finish them. It all sounds the same to me.

But for now, I want you to know that whoever you are, wherever you are, if you or a loved one has lost a baby, I pray for you. You are not alone, you are not the only one stuck.

You are not the only one who sees that the grass is pink and the sky is purple.