Dancing at My Desk

A Note On Mourning

Mourning, grieving, dealing with loss… it’s all the same thing.

And, quite frankly, it sucks.

Getting ready to celebrate a new life and then in one day, everything changes. You find out there is no heartbeat. That the baby is gone. That you will not be buying little clothes or reassembling a crib. That you will have to make dozens of phone calls to tell everyone the bad news.

That you will be leaving the hospital without a baby in your arms.

For the fourth time.

I’ve never been particularly “good” at mourning. I go through all the stages:

1. Shock and Denial (this can’t be happening to us… again).

2. Pain and Guilt (I thought I did everything right, why us?)

3. Anger and Bargaining (Please, let them be wrong. Please let them be wrong.)

4. Depression (Inevitably, this hits me HARD)

5. The Upward Turn (Maybe, just maybe we’ll get through this)

6. Reconstruction and working through (Ok, what’s next? What can I deal with now?)

7. Acceptance and Hope (We’re going to be ok. We are ok.)

I go through them almost like going through checkpoints on a map. I can genuinely “feel” when I’m going through another stage.

Except this time was different. Because the very next day, I had to start through them again.

My beloved grandfather passed away the day after we got the news. He walked into heaven with my baby in his arms.

It forced me to be with family. It was something I needed although I’ll admit it wasn’t something I really wanted. It forced me to help others, to get out of my own head.

It forced me to deal with it all. At once.

And I’m ok. At least I’m getting there. There is another piece of my heart missing. Four little pieces of what could have been that are somewhere else.

And I take comfort in the little things.

My two healthy children’s laughter.

My husband’s strong hugs.

My work to keep pushing me forward.

A good book I can’t put down.

A good cup of coffee with friends.

And the happiness to know that one day, I will have answers. That one day, I’ll hold those four little ones and understand.

I know without a doubt that the baby was a girl. I knew it from the moment we found out. And we have named her Kerry. Because I don’t like to call my children “it.” Because they deserve to be named. Because I need it for closure. For acceptance.

For the memory of what could have been.

We are moving on. Slowly but surely, we are moving on.

And I’m aware of… well… everything. Hypersensitive to the world around me. To the signs of new life everywhere.

And I don’t want to miss it.