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.