Sometimes, it may *seem* like there really is no reason for the tears you *cannot* stop to be pouring out of you.
Then you realize that you visited your baby's grave after church like it was a normal part of life and remember that most days, you have EVERY reason for the tears to pour...you just do a good job of holding them in and trying not to let them control you.
A year ago this day, we celebrated the impending arrival of my sweet boy. It was a wonderful, wonderful day and though I originally protested the idea of a shower at all, I'm so thankful that my martyrdom was not paid one bit of attention and a beautiful day for me, John and Matthew was forever imprinted as priceless in our hearts and minds.
One year ago today.
I still just do not understand how that is possible.
When looking back for the post about the shower, I came across THIS post...and cried and cried and cried and cried.
And am still crying. Because even now, knowing how it all has turned out...my love and appreciation for that precious, precious baby boy has not waned one bit and though I am hurt and sad and angry and confused and so many other emotions I can't even name....one sticks out and rises above them all.
Grateful. I am so, so, so grateful for every second I was given to carry my son. I am grateful for every intimate and sacred moment only I got to share with him. I am grateful for his life and the lives he has touched in only the few hours he was born. I am grateful for his very existence and I am grateful for every gift and blessing I've known because of him.
No matter what, I cannot help but be on-my-knees grateful to God for giving me the miracle of motherhood to a most precious, precious boy.
Make that two precious boys.
SO...today, I admit is hard. Well, every day is hard, but some are harder for me to contain the emotions than others. This is one of those.
I may be backward in my feelings because I know for a lot of people, getting to 24 weeks or beyond is a really, really comforting place in a pregnancy. It's 'technically' the point where a baby could live; where there's theoretically something that could be done and the baby could live despite issues.
For me...I have to say that I somehow had more peace and assurance before we hit 24 weeks--when it was really out of anyone's control, and if truth be told, if something was to happen to the baby, there's nothing that could be done--there was NO denying that my or any caregiver's actions would be able to give a different outcome.
Because the bottom line is that we made it WAY past 24 weeks. We made it past delivery. We had a 'fighter', as his nurses called him.
And he still died. It seems to me that there's more scariness in theoretically being able to save a baby than there is in knowing that it's truly out of your hands before a certain time.
I just don't know how my heart could bear losing another precious boy. It can barely beat with the one we've already lost.