It's been nearly six months since I held my daughter in my arms for the first and last time.
How am I doing? The truth is that
I have no idea.
People ask me how I'm doing, and how our rainbow baby is doing, all the time. They do this out of love, and I am grateful that they ask. But I feel frustrated, because I just don't know, and don't know how to answer.
But there are some things that I do know.
I know that becoming pregnant again less than three months after our first baby died and was born has halted my grief. I am shut down emotionally. I expect that when our second baby is born, the terrible emotions of grief will rise again. I think that I am looking forward to this, because feeling nothing is even more terrible.
I know that being pregnant again so soon after Eve's stillbirth is scary. This week I have begun to wonder if our rainbow baby will be our last living biological child, because I don't know if I have the courage to go through a third pregnancy.
I know that I am dreading Mother's Day. This is not because of the day itself, but because of the deep and painful questions that I am grappling with going into Mother's Day. It is my first Mother's Day as a mother, and my child is dead. So who or what am I now?
I know that it is hard to do anything. Every task is overwhelming, even ones I found enjoyable before. I just want to go to sleep and not wake up until I feel like a real person again.
I know that I love my children, both the daughter more alive in Christ than I am and the tiny little one growing within me. I know that grief is a product of love, and even though grief is hard, it does not make me afraid to love recklessly.
I know that I am exhausted. All I want to do is rest, and yet when I finally slide beneath the bed covers at night, sleep eludes me.
I know that every night, I remember. Once the lights go out, the memories of Eve's labor and birth wash over me. I remember what it felt like as she made her way out of me, and how devastatingly alone and empty I felt when they took her away to clean and clothe her. I remember how I sobbed when my husband showed me our daughter's body. I remember the purse of her lips, the smoothness of her cheeks, the dark curls of her hair.
I know that I am loved by the Great Lover of our souls. I know that I am not forgotten, even when I feel forgotten. I know that I am held, even though it feels like I have plunged off a cliff and will be falling forever.
I know that death is not the end of our stories, for those that make their home in Jesus. I know that He longs for us all to come Home. I know that I will meet my daughter again in His heart.
I know that I am alive, that I am surviving, even if I don't want to be, even if I don't know how that can be. I am here, I am breathing, there is life and Life within. I am not yet finished.
How are you doing, really?
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