In some ways it feels like it has been an eternity since we lost our baby, not one month. It feels even stranger to say that it has been 30 days. But it has. Our hearts are healing. And while we grieved in the immediate aftermath of the miscarriage, there are days where it feels like the grief is just beginning. When it first happened I was in shock. I cried for days. But most of the time I was just floating through life, holding on and barely getting my most basic tasks done. Now there is normalcy to our lives again. I want to cook now (which is a huge milestone). I want to clean. I want to make a home and be around people. I don’t cry every day.
And that’s what makes it so hard sometimes. My life is going on—without my baby. There are days where I just wish I could stop the craziness of work, church, and life and just think and reflect. The hardest part is that I can’t stay where I was last month, in the freshness of my lost pregnancy. I have to keep moving. And everything around me has kept moving too. My body no longer makes me eat every two hours, or makes me want to go to bed at 7 pm. These are acute reminders that I am no longer pregnant. One of the strangest things I have heard come out of the mouth in recent days is, “when I was pregnant.” I know what it is like to be pregnant. I just don’t know the joy of holding my baby. And that still kills me sometimes.
I suppose that this is part of the grief process. Moving on with each passing day even when your heart is screaming to stand still and keep mourning. Or maybe you just learn to mourn with the new days, grieving what could have been. It’s a hard balance to find; trying to continue with your life when you have a deep wound that you are afraid could open at any given moment. And I’m still learning the balance.
So that’s where I’m at one month later. Still processing, still crying, and still thinking. God has been here, and I am more thankful for his comforting presence than I ever knew I could be. It doesn’t take the sting away, but his comfort is a constant covering of fatherly care. He isn’t finished with me yet, and he hasn’t left. And that gives me hope.
And that’s what makes it so hard sometimes. My life is going on—without my baby. There are days where I just wish I could stop the craziness of work, church, and life and just think and reflect. The hardest part is that I can’t stay where I was last month, in the freshness of my lost pregnancy. I have to keep moving. And everything around me has kept moving too. My body no longer makes me eat every two hours, or makes me want to go to bed at 7 pm. These are acute reminders that I am no longer pregnant. One of the strangest things I have heard come out of the mouth in recent days is, “when I was pregnant.” I know what it is like to be pregnant. I just don’t know the joy of holding my baby. And that still kills me sometimes.
I suppose that this is part of the grief process. Moving on with each passing day even when your heart is screaming to stand still and keep mourning. Or maybe you just learn to mourn with the new days, grieving what could have been. It’s a hard balance to find; trying to continue with your life when you have a deep wound that you are afraid could open at any given moment. And I’m still learning the balance.
So that’s where I’m at one month later. Still processing, still crying, and still thinking. God has been here, and I am more thankful for his comforting presence than I ever knew I could be. It doesn’t take the sting away, but his comfort is a constant covering of fatherly care. He isn’t finished with me yet, and he hasn’t left. And that gives me hope.