The lessons I am learning through grief feel like they come from boths sides of a fence. Some lessons are glorious. Like how deep God’s love for me really is, how He truly is my only comforter and provider, how to love and appreciate my family more, even how to slow down and truly see people in my world that are hurting and act on that. Other lessons seem to be on a totally different spectrum. With the previous things mentioned I feel that my faith has reached new depths and I have sauntered down my path of becoming more like God a little faster. And yet it shocks me from the intense intimacy and spiritualness of these moments that I still am so sinful. I am also learning how lonely grief can be. Although its quite wonderful that God knows all my thoughts and my specific pain, a part of me still longs for a person to. And they can’t. I know plenty of women have had miscarriages throughout history, but every journey with that child and giving up that child is so different and unique to each woman. It’s been hard to reach the point where everyone is expecting that I am OK now. Its been long enough, other worlds have certainly continued to keep their usual crazy pace. But mine hasn’t. it has its crazy moments, even days. But each day is usually paused at some point with thoughts of Jasmine, aching voids, uncontrollable loss and sadness. I had a moment the other night.
I was pricing some clothes I was selling at a friends garage sale this past Friday and Saturday. I was almost done. I had gotten through most of the clothes and I was finishing with a little stack of onesies. The last one was sitting on my lap when i looked down to grab it and it captured me. This little yellow onesie was so small. It’s been so long since I have cuddled my own baby that was so little, vulnerable and needy. A year and half to be exact. In four more months that onesie would have been filled, probably a little baggy if she had followed in A and M’s footsteps. I would have been feeling her kick already, I would be 19 weeks this week. We would get to see her on the ultrasound next week, finding out for sure that she was a girl.
And the void grew, I will NEVER get to experience these things. They are lost. As the weeks pass by, my ache to hold her grows stronger and stronger. Time hasn’t made it easier, yet. I see flashes of what, to me, she would have looked like, just like M but a girl. Blond curly locks. Times as a family seem incomplete. She, at this point would still be inside me, but she would be here.
So many of my friends have experienced something like this. And then they have more kids. I am not sure that I want to now. And yet even people that have gone through this don’t understand why I wouldn’t. I don’t expect people that have never had one to understand. But I do expect those that have had a miscarriage to, even tough they might have decided differently understand why I might not carry another baby. I really don’t know how to explain it to others in a way that they will understand or be satisfied with where I am at. But I don’t feel crazy to feel this way either. It is my journey and along this journey I have not had one moment, even in my most intimate times with God, that I felt peace about carrying another child.
I sat on the floor looking at the little yellow onesie and just cried.
A line in a song that my husband wrote when we lost her, “Jasmine lingers on the spring breeze “, she is lingering in my thoughts, my days, my heart, my life. And I am crippled, trying to discover my new life with loss in it.
Today, A held a toy in her arms like a baby and said “this is my baby sister”…