I’m often trying to convince myself that it’s okay to still be grieving. I pretend that it’s just my way of defending my grief to others…but if I’m really being honest, I’m pretty sure it’s me trying to defend my sadness to myself.* Last night as I was laying in bed, I was devising yet another way to convince someone/myself of believing that my grief is real. That it deserved the attention I had no control over giving this past year. So I started thinking about the heartbeat. On June 28th, 2010, I saw the heartbeat of my baby. I saw the beautiful flicker of life that gives most future mothers a sigh of relief of a thriving life inside. When I remembered that flicker last night on the screen as I was trying to go to sleep, my heart sank. I had life in me. I…we…gave life to another human being. And just as quickly as it came, my body took it away. My body stopped it because it didn’t think it belonged there. I had a baby with a heartbeat and then I didn’t. It wasn’t just a collection of cells, a mass of tissue…it was life. That heartbeat was supposed to continue to beat long after mine stopped. The being with that heartbeat was supposed to smile at it’s parents, learn to walk and talk, breathe the air in these hills that we love to breathe. And then all of that hope that so many people take for granted, was taken away 10 days later. My baby’s heart stopped beating. I’m allowed to grieve for that. Why can’t people understand that? Isn’t this enough?
*Except, right now, it is both me trying to convince myself as well as a few others. I’ve spent a good portion of this past month defending how I chose to grieve this past year to someone, and in my head, I’m always trying to make my case. Why do we have to do that? Doesn’t that just seem backwards? How are we not all compassionate? To ourselves and to others. It’s not right.
Okay…stepping off soap box…