Isn't grief supposed to be healing?  Shouldn't every tear shed, every day endured be a step closer to the broken being put back together?

It doesn't feel like that.  Instead, each day seems to shred my seams a little more.  I am unraveling.

I'm sure that some of that is to do with pregnancy.  Hormones and fear -- the mind-bending companions of a rainbow pregnancy.

A friend asked me this past week if the pregnancy has been getting easier.

I think I laughed.

It's true that I feel much better now than I did in the early weeks of this pregnancy.  That was a dark, soul-crushing time that I am not eager to relive anytime soon.  Now, at least, I have baby kicks and a baby belly.  Then, all I had was the fear.

But the days seem to be turning dark again.  31 weeks -- the gestation that Eve died at -- is fast approaching, and I am daily refilled with dread.

I don't know how I will survive that time, just two months away now.  I don't know how I will endure the times when this sweet boy growing inside me is not kicking, knowing what not-kicking can mean.

I don't want to go there.  But I know that I have to, if I want to hold a living baby in my arms.

Still, I am terrified.

And sad.  So sad.  The tears come without warning, without reason.  Although don't I have reason enough?  My daughter is dead, and who knows if my son will join her before my life is run?

But when the tears come now, I am not thinking about anything particularly sad.  They just come, racing down my cheeks at the strangest times, and I am reminded -- my life is not what it once was.

Yesterday, I cried when I spilled bean salad all over our kitchen floor.  I cried when I got the time wrong for an online artsy chat and missed it.  I cried when I went for a walk.  I cried while I sat in our church folding bulletins.  I cried as I bought cereal at the grocery store, and as I drove home.  I cried in my husband's arms.  I cried when I went to bed. 

It is a strange thing, to be crying for your dead child while your living one is kicking away within you.

Life is fragile, and achingly precious.  I have learned this the hard way, and perhaps that is why I cry.

I miss my daughter.  I am so excited to meet our son.  I am grateful for both of our children, and I would not wish their lives away to skip this pain.

But this pregnancy, it is hard.  I am unraveling.  The only thing I am left to do is to pray that God is letting this happen so He can weave me into something better than I was. 

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