Three years?

Three years. Some thoughts.

Next week is Eleanor's birthday. One year with our 'rainbow' - my sweet little girl. I've been able to talk more about losing Henry. Not in volume, but more content.

 I remember more. Some days I remember nothing but the fear and anxiety looming behind the sedation.

 When they don't expect your child to survive, they give you really good drugs for the cesarean. I was pretty impressed after having a routine cesarean with Eleanor. They did NOT load me up with the relaxing anti-anxieties and whatnot. I didn't expect that when she was born - I had to actually be brave, rather than float away on that mind-numbing cloud.

 I remember the terror once he left us. His skin lost the blotching. His complexion became perfect. His toes alabaster, the dark shadows leaving. Once he was gone, I wanted him to be taken away. I wish I hadn't. I wish I held him all night. This year was the first time I realized this. I'm so ashamed that I let my fear get in the way. I'm so proud that Jason didn't have that fear. He embraced him when I couldn't. He held our son as he took his last breaths, and long after. He walked him down to the surgery unit. He gave him his final good-bye kiss. I don't say this enough -- my husband is my hero and my inspiration.

  My girls are with my mom, and I'm cleaning - and crying. It's therapy. Cleaning the house while cleaning out my emotions -- emptying my cup of grief until it fills again. And now, standing alone in my kitchen, I find myself in tears. Anything and everything brings me back to those hours before, during, and after. The days, months either way. Today's trigger was Hamilton -- I freaking LOVE this musical. But Eliza after losing Phillip.. and It's Quiet Uptown. It undoes me. (Listen here)

It's leaning into the knife. Sometimes you need to push it in to feel and acknowledge your emotions. Sometimes you need to grieve, and not just push everything away. I've been pushing it all away and find myself being short with my (amazing) kids. I get so angry at myself when I yell - it's a vicious cycle.

 My advice for the grieving? Know that you have this same 'cup' - and that it's okay. Some days it'll fill within minutes. Some days it'll slowly fill over days, months, years. Tend to it, tend to yourself. Take care of yourself, so that you can enjoy your life ahead of you.

I've also realized that I don't have enough time. So, I don't have time for anything but what I want and need for my family. I don't have time for pettiness and ugliness. I don't have time to bring darkness to the world. I don't have time for drama. I will always do what is best for my family and myself. For my girls. For my son, and his memory.

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There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down