Grief is a crazy ride...

I posted on Facebook and Instagram this week about how dealing with grief is like a ride, and you never know what will trigger the downward spiral. 

Last night Thomas was having a rough night and finally asked to sit on my lap before going to sleep.  I scooped him up and started humming the song I’ve hummed to him since the day he was born.  I felt his body calm down and knew we might finally get him to calm down enough to go to sleep.  I couldn’t get comfortable because he’s so long while holding him and sitting on his bed so I stood up and held him like I did a few years ago when he was a newborn.  While humming my mind thought about how he was getting way too big for this, and then the next thought was “I should be holding your brother like this” – which of course sent me over the edge….again.  I kept myself together until I got him tucked back in, but once I left his room I collapsed into Tom and lost it as he held me. 

Triggers come from nowhere and everywhere.  Sometimes they trigger a memory, a sadness, a longing or pain.  It’s always unexpected (like above), and it’s always different.  It has been anything from seeing a pregnant woman, seeing a woman carry a baby, walking passed the baby section at Target, seeing pictures of your friend’s newborn on Facebook, thinking about how we haven't visited his grave since his funeral in September, or just getting lost in my own mind. 

Those are the moments that I never see coming.  Those are the moments I miss Isaac the most.  When it becomes so overwhelmingly obvious that he is missing from our everyday moments. 

When I write that I take things one day at a time – that’s exactly what I’m doing.   It’s a choice I have to make every single day to keep going.  This grief thing is a crazy ride that I would love to jump off of, but it doesn’t work like that.  Instead, I just hold on with everything I’ve got and wait for the ride to momentarily stop…until the next ride begins.

Dear Isaac,

Wednesday night I had a really rough night of being angry you were gone, missing you, and dreaming about our future without you.  Are we really ready to think about having another baby?  Will it bring back all of the memories of losing you?  Would I spend the whole nine months deathly afraid it could happen again?  Could we lose the next baby as well?  I honestly don’t think my heart could handle that again.  But, I also know that I have to have faith in God, and in my body that it won’t happen again. 

Oh Isaac – how will our hearts ever grow big enough to love another as much as we loved you?  I know deep down that it’s possible because we weren’t even sure our hearts would grow big enough to love you after we had Thomas, but they did. 

A huge part of our hearts long to hold and cuddle a baby, and for Thomas to finally be able to be the big brother he wants to be.  But, I also want it to be you that we’re holding.  I feel like you took all I had left with you, and what if what I have left won’t be enough for someone else?

My love for you and Thomas split my heart open the moment I knew about both of you, and has changed me forever.  My love for you is in every breath I take, every smile, every tear that slides down my face, and with every thought I have.  I hide my true feelings at times because I’m afraid I would appear too broken and fragile.  The last thing I want is for the awkward pause when people give me “that look” that makes me feel like it would have been better to keep it all in. 

I remember after finding out I was pregnant with you that I promised you that I’d love you forever, and I will.  That promise will never go away.  But, now I have to make you some new promises.  I promise to never give up.  I promise to believe our family can grow even bigger.  I promise to trust that you are watching out for us.  I promise to always love your dad.  I promise to trust that my love is enough for another baby.  I promise that your brother and possible future sibling(s) will know about you, and how important you are to us.  I promise that you will never be forgotten.

Mom