Monday, March 13, 2017

May Comes Anyway

May is coming. It always does. There are few things I dread quite like May. May 8th is due date of Francis, the first baby we lost, and in many ways has become the one day that represents all our lost children. Last year, it also happened to fall on Mother's Day which was particularly rough.

I had hoped that this day would get easier over time but it hasn't. In many ways, it's harder now. When we lived in North Carolina, we would go to the cemetery and the beach to mark this day. There is no grave or beach here in Colorado so the day is empty of even the rituals we had created that made it that much more bearable.

Over the years, I've also tried to express to various friends and family members that May 8th is an important day to me that I would like remembered but for some reason, that message never got through. I think perhaps I wasn't as clear as I thought I was about conveying the message. I imagine most simply, unintentionally forgot and for a few others, it's a bit too awkward or painful and so they intentionally forgot. It's ok, that's just how it turned out and I know that no one was intentionally being hurtful. But it does break my heart a little bit when I hear other people say or see bloggers write about how people in their lives remember their little ones on those special days. I want that. I need that. But my day of remembrance is a very solitary day, one I generally reflect on completely alone, without even my husband.

This year I am in lucky in that we will be taking a trip to North Carolina at the end of May and I'll be able to visit Francis's grave then. That will give me something to look forward to when May 8th comes.

I'm currently pregnant for the seventh time so why does the baby we lost in my second pregnancy still bring me so much pain? I've had three losses since then, none that were quite so painful and none that I think about even nearly so often. I've had a living child since then, a beautiful baby boy who is the source of immense joy, and have every reason to anticipate that my current pregnancy will end in another living child. I had a child already when Francis was lost and that little girl continues to be just this beautiful ray of sunshine and hope. So why do I still so deeply mourn my second child, the first baby I lost, my tiny little Francis? The truth is, I don't know. Grief in inexplicable, really.

I wish it wasn't this way. I wish I hadn't spend hours over the last few days crying. I wish Francis was just a memory, a painful memory sure, but something solidly in the past. But he/she is not. I am so grateful for my two living children. I love them so very much. In many ways, our family feels good and whole. But them, suddenly, sometimes it doesn't and I'm keenly aware that someone is missing. The age gap between my two suddenly seems gaping and it's hard not to notice that someone should be filling that gap. Not a hypothetical someone, but a real someone. A child who did exist, if only for a very short time, and whose eternal soul still exists far away from his/her earthly family.

Usually I try to have a point to my posts. I mostly write to be helpful to other people. But sometimes, I write just for me. I don't have anyone in my life who I feel comfortable talking to about things like this and sometimes I feel like I just have to share how I'm feeling with someone, anyone, even strangers on the internet. Grief feels really lonely and the loneliness seems to make it even worse.


2 comments:

  1. We have four souls here and four in heaven. Your quote, "I don't have anyone in my life who I feel comfortable talking to about things like this and sometimes I feel like I just have to share how I'm feeling with someone..." is so very true.

    Thank you for giving voice to the thoughts that I feel I can't share.

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  2. I feel the same way. My son was stillborn on May 3, 2013. His two triplet siblings survived. I still grieve for him, despite my living children and everything else that has happened since (including two miscarriages and another baby). I still search for others who feel the same way (which is how I found your blog).

    I hardly ever comment on anything, but I just thought it might comfort you to know that someone with a similar story read and appreciated what you wrote in this post.

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