52 Weeks Later..

52 weeks ago we found out Henry had HPE. One year. I'm trying my hardest to keep my mind distracted, keep me from reliving my feelings from last year. I definitely don't want to relive my amnio.

And now this is my last week at my clinic. I've accepted a position at my alma mater. I'll be assisting the nursing program faculty in their day-to-day operations. It's a really exciting opportunity - and terrifying.

I'm so pumped to start again. To be in a completely neutral environment. I'm also terrified to be separated from my work-family -- these ladies are amazing!

But, I have to do what's best for me. And my mental health.

But.. seriously? I'm so excited. The position I'll be in is more towards my career. I'll have more responsibility, better hours, and I'll get to work with some seriously great people.

Not to mention, it's closer to home, my gym, and my family.

Optimism wins again!

This is my affirmation for the day. Saltwater, by Finn Butler.

Milestones

It’s almost January 25^th. That’s the day we found out that our expected child was a boy – our little Henry.

I’m getting used to faking it. I’m able to function with other people, be in situations, without completely losing it. I've been good about even being alone.

But this week has been different. My mind keeps on going back a year. I've been involuntarily reliving everything. A year ago, I never would have thought I'd be in this position. Everything went so wonderfully with my pregnancy with Amelia that I never would have even guessed something like this could have happened to us. We didn’t know anyone else who had carried a nonviable baby to term. Well, not nonviable – incompatible with life.

I remember reading that term for the first time. I don’t recall the website, or the article. Just the phrase. And my baby moving inside of me. His strong kicks and his stretches.

I remember waiting for the second ultrasound to look into the cystic images we found with the first. I remember the fear, the knowing that something was wrong. I spent that weekend in a constant state of anxiety. For me – that’s acting out rather gregariously. We went out, I laughed too loudly, tried to be too bright. I tried to talk myself into buying his bedding set – we had decided on a nautical and aquatic theme for his bedroom. I made these plans to make my feeling not true. I tried so hard to believe that I was wrong.

We thought he’d just have a disability. We thought he’d have a hard life, and we’d have a difficult time raising him. We never even thought that he would die.

The last few days, I’ve been alone in my car. It’s really the only time I get to myself. After a moment, I feel something break inside of me – right in the middle of my chest. It’s the walls I’ve been painstakingly constructing over the last few months. I can’t contain the emotion, the pain, as well anymore. I feel like I’m on edge.

Again, I’m in this constant state of anxiety. I’m really tense, I’m trying a bit too hard, I’m either incredibly outgoing or quiet. When I’m quiet, it’s because I can’t speak. It’s because I’m trying to keep my little emotional dam in place. Because, I need to function. Writing it out is helping me understand my thoughts, it helps me acknowledge my pain so I’m not choking on it all day. I can’t drown. I refuse to sink.

I just miss you, Henry. I miss the future I dreamed for all of us.

It seems like every time I get through one big milestone, another is staring me in the face.

We made it through the holidays. Barely.

Now I'm sitting here, with my beautiful daughter shoving ravioli all over her face, and then I realize -- at this time last year, we were so blissful. But twenty days later, we found out that "something" was wrong.

January 25th.

I'm not writing very much here right now. It's all very dark, and I'm trying to avoid posting that stuff. But I'm trying to work through it. While I've been doing this, I feel like I've realized something may be wrong with me. I'm always alone. Not physically. I feel like I talk a lot, but, while I may make friends.. I don't feel like I have any. I don't feel connected to anyone. I don't think I really ever have. I feel like I've been so independent for so long -- I think I'm a little screwed up. I feel like I have a million acquaintances, but no friends. If you consider myself your friend, please don't be insulted by that statement. I value everyone close to me. But. I don't know if my heart is operating the way it should be. I feel like everyone is just passing through. I don't want to use the word disposable for anyone -- except for maybe myself.

Maybe that's normal for this stage of grief. Maybe I'm just cycling through it.