Hope

I am terrified of trying again. That familair copper tastes fills my mouth at the thought of having a sonogram. The monthly doppler search for a heart beat makes me reach for a bowl.

The giant has me cornered, and I am cowered in his presence.

My final thoughts the moments before they took Grace from me, or perhaps I dreamed, was of seeing her run down the hall with her brothers, their bare feet slapping the wood floor in unison like a tribal chant; my voice calling their names, Solo, Eli, Jonas, Gracie Beth; a name so foreign, but so perfect.

Then I dreamed another dream of a recovery room filled with all my family, and my husband's family, and my sweet friend's there to share the joy after the pain, there waiting for me, and Caleb, and baby number 5. I watched the Doctor that had wept with us and prayed with us and for us to find joy again, lift a baby from my belly and raise her high above the sheet. She was weeping and I was weeping and my husband was weeping. Right there, in that second, the sorrowful tears shifted to joyful ones. I can feel the shift now.

Take that, Giant. I still have hope.

You should be arriving any day.I force myself to stop pretending that you still are. Dreaming for even a minute of your weight in my arms, your mouth rooting towards my breast, your long fingers curled tight, turns to nightmare.

When I was little my dad taught me how to control my dreams. I was just a girl and could turn chase on villans, create weapons out of air, change the story I was writing in my sleep, but I can not bring her back, not even in my dreams; like Anne Shirley and her red hair that could not be imagined away.

 There's a dull ache resonating where Gracie should be. Tears still rest close to the surface and overflow at silly things, like watching my teenage nieces braiding each others hair.

Im not angry that Grace died. Not exactly. I trust in Jesus.  I believe that the Almighty God that knew the beginning and the end before the foundations of the earth were laid, has a plan. Im not angry at his plan. Not completely.

Im not angry that my friend's daughter is healthy and due next week. Im sad. I am heart crushingly sad. But I am not angry.

Everyone says its okay to be angry. But I refuse. I throw my anger on the giant's face and fight hard not to fix my eyes on him. I know that if I stop worshipping, I stop trusting. If I stop trusting, I start to panic. The all out crazy lady kind of panic because my baby is gone and in a box, in a field, and everything in me wants to rush there and scream into the night. I know that if I do that, I will not recover. I know I will not rise up and walk away. I know the anger will take root and ruin me.

I dont have time for poison. I have her brothers to raise. I have a Savior to point them too. I have a giant to fight back every moment of everday. I can't do that if I'm angry. I cant do that if I stop trusting. I can not do that if I stop worshipping.

I am weary of the sadness. So I worship.
I want her back. So I worship.

And He is near.
And I weep, and weep, and weep.

I dont know why its pulling me under tonight.

I don't know why the terrible loop that started with, "we cant find her heartbeat," is on repeat.

I don't know what today did to trigger the shadows to step away from the edges of normalcy and smother me.

I don't know why it feels fresh again.

I don't know why I am back to being unable to catch my breath. Is it knowing she is gone or or the panic that I have all of forever to ache for her?

I don't know why I am nesting when I know she isn't arriving. 

I don't know how to listen to her brother plead for another sister every night. 

I don't know how to be both relieved and sad every 28 days. 

I don't know how to grow our family without sheer terror of every sonogram.  

I don't know how to close my eyes and rest. 

I don't know how to make it stop.

Sometimes I cant put my finger on why on a perfectly fine day, something still feels wrong.

Then I remember I lost you, and the sadness stops ebbing in the shadows and throws its weight, heavy on my chest.

I just want to stop the replay. I want to stop remembering your movements in the waiting room. I want to stop remembering you so still an hour later. I want to close my eyes and not see the moniter and not witness your stillness, or hear the tech's panic and rush to leave the room. I want to forget the first moments your dad and I clung to each other, silently trying to catch our breath and calm our hearts and start a life without you.

Tonight I want to close my eyes and sleep and not remember you at all.

I can't describe it well enough, the missing.

Some days it's like a hit to your funny bone, all pins and needles like, with a sharp hurt that you can't touch to soothe.

Some days it's like the moment you know you are going to be sick. That primal moment when your body is in control and you have no choice but to steady yourself at a bowl and let your body purge.

A lot more days are like the latter.

Like when the boy at show and tell presented the tiniest diaper, belonging to his newest sister, born too early, but still alive. The copper taste hits my tongue and I think of how my baby should be this size. The bile rises as Solo turns to find my eyes as it dawns on him that he should be having a baby sister soon. I need a bowl as I watch the sadness travel across his face.