The emotions of the heart must be felt. There’s no option to just ignore or fast forward through them, though sometimes I wish I could. Yesterday, Lucy’s ‘Angelversary’, was one of those days in which my heart had a lot to say, but no way to say it. I wanted to write, but couldn’t. I wanted to talk about it, but couldn’t. And so, I just felt my way through Lucy’s remembrance day. It’s difficult with that day immediately following her birthday. Both sad, for similar yet different reasons. I couldn’t sleep Thursday night; insomnia was in full force. I was up well past 4 AM, unable to turn my brain off, powerless to stop the flashbacks from one year ago. I suppose even my body remembers what happened exactly one year prior, and it doesn’t want to forget either. I was totally wired, so I spent some time in the nursery writing in my journal and looking at Lucy’s photo book. I wish I could explain how I was feeling, but it’s truly impossible. Such a mixture of sadness and feeling like a lost, wandering soul. There’s nothing easy about this, nothing at all. Like I said, I am truly at a loss for words, so this is a short post. I just wanted to acknowledge the day, to note that Lucy’s angelversary happened and I survived it.

I also want to note that so many people reached out to let us know they were thinking of Lucy, especially on her birthday. I don’t think I could have gotten through the day well without the love and support. Though I really wish more than anything that we could just have our daughter back, I am thankful that her short life still matters not just to us, but to others as well. In that, we are truly blessed.

It’s rare that I post twice in the same day, but I feel the need to share what happened to me a few hours ago. I let Waggs out the back door, and she ran around the side of the house to the front. She’s been obsessing about catching the chipmunks that have been skittering around lately, so I assumed she was in hot pursuit of one. I followed her, and she was stopped, sort of on point, with her hackles up. I giggled when I realized she was growling at an errant mylar balloon that had found its way to our yard, hung up on a bush. As I walked closer to pick it up, I realized it said “Happy Mother’s Day”. At that point, I said aloud, “Are you f*cking kidding me? Of all the yards, why ours?!” I snatched it up angrily, and when I turned it over, I started crying as I realized that the other side said “Love You Mom”. It had butterflies on it… BUTTERFLIES. A wave of emotion swept over me, and of course, my first thought was “Lucy”. I felt overwhelmed but was no longer angry or irritated that this shiny pink piece of wandering sentiment had somehow landed in our yard. What are the odds? I don’t know, but I’m going to look at it as a little love note from my baby girl. Maybe that makes me a touch crazy, but I suppose stranger things have happened.

I’ve whispered several times today, “I love you too, Lucy.”

Thank you, sweet girl.

Butterflies and all…

I haven’t been a very active writer this month, either here or in my journal. Life is simply too busy again, and there’s hardly any time to slow down and reflect. I’m having a tough time with that lately. This time of the school year is ridiculous already, and adding grief denial to that seems like a nice recipe for disaster. I am aching to take a mental health day to catch up on my self-care, but there just isn’t a time that I can do that until we reach summer. I keep trying to look ahead, but all I can see is what’s directly in front of me, nothing else. That kind of short-sighted vision is leaving me to feel absolutely overwhelmed, and a little bit hopeless. I am certainly trying to stay optimistic, and remind myself frequently that Lucy’s light is all around me.

A lot has happened since Easter, though with the current near-sightedness in my life, it’s hard to remember it all. So many things have become a blur. I feel guilty for not recording all that is good in my life these past few weeks- and there truly is a lot of it- but it’s interwoven still with hurt, sadness, and struggling hope, so I don’t always find myself feeling those joys fully. I am looking forward to having more than just a few minutes to share the things that are making me happy (most of them have to do with our sweet Lucy)… I promise to get to them soon.

In the mean time, I suppose I am staying afloat, and I am surviving. As the nine month mark nears, Mother’s Day is also lurking around the corner, and I can feel myself tense up whenever I think of it. I am allowing myself grace when I need it, and I’m still going to allow myself a free pass when it comes to all things bereaved mother related. It’s a hard road, and unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to have gotten any easier, I’ve just somehow gotten stronger. One thing is always certain: I miss my baby girl. No matter how busy life gets, she is always at the front of my thoughts.

Today at work, I was trying my best to NOT have a grief meltdown. During my prep period, the tea was too hot to drink, the deep breathing wasn’t working, and there was no good place to cry. The internet radio was on, and a song called “Cecilia and the Satellite” played… my favorite lyric is “For all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you.” (Of course she was, of course she is .) That always reminds me of Lucy, which in that moment, was both good and bad. I was also in my principal’s office for a spell, talking to her about next year’s schedule, and was greeted with a 9 month milestone photo of her baby that took up one entire screen of her double-screened computer. Stab, sting, pinch. Ugh. I know that it was merely circumstance, and of course it’s only natural for her to have photos up of her sweet baby. But it’s those types of things that make me miss my Lucy even more.

It all made me feel even more uneasy and vulnerable. I have been on such uncertain ground this week; I just feel extra unsettled for some reason. I can’t quite put my finger on it, it’s just harder suddenly. Deep breathing can only go so far, hot tea can only help so much… instead, I needed to keep my crap together because within minutes, I knew I’d have a room full of students again. Sometimes, missing Lucy is excruciatingly difficult, and grief sucks. Having to pretend it’s all okay is just as tiresome as the grieving part. I just miss my baby, dammit.

I’ve mostly been staying emotionally afloat lately, but every now and again, when I’m doing something perfectly ordinary, I catch glimpses of what my life is supposed to be like, and it crushes me. There are reminders everywhere I look that tell me I’m missing something. Everything is different than it should be because Lucy isn’t here. Overall, I know I’m doing a lot ‘better’ than I was, but sometimes my emotions bubble up to the surface from nowhere, and the pain is as fresh and raw in those moments as it was when we first lost our little girl. Now, I suppose I can’t imagine what my life could ever be like without the intense sadness that repeatedly washes over me; it’s become a part of me, as much as Lucy is a part of me.

Today, the parallel universe in which Lucy got to stay with us has been taking over my brain. I keep seeing in my mind’s eye what life would be like with an almost seven month old baby. It’s painful and debilitating to consider all that we’re missing. Nothing I do today is a distraction from it, and I keep having mini crying spells. Chris was briefly concerned, but we both know this is just normal now… so I let my tears flow, the moment passes, and I take another breath and keep going. If love and wishes were enough to bring my sweet baby back to me, she’d be here. Though I’m moving forward toward living my life again, the Lucy-shaped hole in my heart has not changed… she will always be my missing piece. I miss her terribly today.

This week, I’ve been having a hard time with words. Sometimes there just aren’t any. When I’m talking, I feel as though I’m forcing the words out of my mouth. When words do come, I’m fumbling with them and verbally tripping all over myself. I can’t get them out. Even writing has been tough. Normally, written expression is easy for me, but I feel stunted this week for some reason. It has been 17 weeks since losing Lucy. Sometimes, I don’t know how I’ve survived every day of that. All I can think of is her and how much we are missing. As Christmas creeps closer, I continue to become more somber and the lack of words keeps on. I feel as though I’m wrapped in a blanket of sadness, and though I try to keep hope and light in front of everything, I’m just having a hard time. My body aches everywhere, my back is in knots, and there’s a constant lump in my throat. I can’t help but think continuously about what I should be doing with my baby daughter right now and of how beautifully she would be growing. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see her peaceful, angelic little face, feel the wonderful weight of her in my arms. We didn’t get to hold her for long enough. I suppose no amount of time would have truly been enough. Instead of feeling the joy of Lucy’s first Christmas, a blankness consumes me. I know my life still holds meaning and promise, but right now I just feel SO SAD. So heartbroken. The ache is always there, no matter what I’m doing. And that’s all I have to say today… I’m so sad, and I miss my baby girl so much.

Most of the time, I think I’m doing rather well out in public these days. There are the occasional baby sightings that make my heart hurt, and sometimes glowing pregnant women who make me wistful for those days again with Lucy safe in my belly, but overall, I can handle it. Usually. Until today.

Chris and I went to Costco around noon for some necessities, and on this particular Sunday (as usual) it was bustling. I did the usual avert of the eyes at the first couple of babies I saw, trying to find something else to look at instead, but all I saw were more babies. Babies in car seats, babies in carriers, babies in carts, babies in their mom or dad’s arms, babies surrounded by their multiple siblings… I suddenly realized there was nowhere safe to divert my attention to. I felt my ears getting hot, I started to sweat a bit, my pulse started racing, and it was an effort to breathe normally. I said aloud to Chris, “Oh my god, how are there so many of them in here?!” Every aisle we traveled down was filled with families and babies and pregnant women… Chris saw how I looked and asked me if I wanted to go to the car. I said, no, that I thought I could handle it. We kept shopping, making our way down each aisle. It wasn’t getting better. We were walking behind a very pregnant woman, and at the end of the aisle, she stopped to meet up with her husband and three other very healthy children. I guess that was the moment that did me in. Then all I could hear were the shrieks, giggles, squeals and cries of babies all around me, and it’s like everything suddenly just became distorted- sound, vision, everything. Chris handed me the car keys and said, “Go to the car. It’s okay. I’ll finish getting the rest. I love you, and I’ll see you in a few.” He became, once again, my knight in shining armor. I grabbed the keys, thanked him and bailed. As I made my way to the exit, I saw even more babies. I thought I was going to combust. Once I got to the safety of the car, I called my mom, she calmed me down and distracted me from losing my mind, and then I was better. I made it through the whole thing without totally breaking down, but it was touch and go there for a few minutes. When Chris got back to the car, he said that it seemed to get a lot worse in there after I left. He had a hard time with it too, but is better at managing the anxiety of it all than I often am.

Being a loss parent is damn hard. There are reminders of what we’ve lost everywhere we go. There’s no escaping it. It seems like maybe I’d get used to seeing those things constantly around me, and that maybe it’d get easier, but sometimes it’s just too much. I’m thankful to have such a caring, loving husband with such patience and understanding toward me. I don’t know what I’d do without him, or the other people in my support system… I owe my mom a huge thank you today too. She helped me back away from the edge of the emotional abyss. Knowing that our family and friends understand the difficulties we need to overcome and are there for us is truly comforting. For this, I am eternally thankful.

We had our first hard frost last night, the leaves have almost all fallen from the trees… suddenly, it’s mid-November. It’s been three months of navigating through grief. Things have their way of moving on whether you want them to or not. There is a large part of me that will never move on, and I don’t want it to. The love I feel for Lucy continues to grow and because of that, she will always be with me. That’s something you don’t ever move on from.

I know my previous post was bleak, but I guess that’s what two twelve hour days in a classroom will do to pretty much anyone. I’m not saying that to dismiss my feelings from the other day- everything I wrote was totally what I feel rather often now. Much of the shine in my life does feel like it’s gone, but it isn’t like that every moment. I am good at playing the parts required of me, and I even smile a lot again, but most of that is just me returning to old habits again. It’s exhausting to be weighted down by the effects of grief and interact with so many people for such a long stretch of time each day. Not much of a choice though and I need a paycheck. I know joy will enter my life again sometime, I do have faith in that, but it might be a long stretch to wait. Until then, I guess I’ll keep going through the motions. Sidenote: I was back in the classroom for only four days before I caught the cold that is running rampant around there! I know that is NOT helping my mood or perspective.

I keep having random flashbacks to my pregnancy with Lucy. This morning I was sitting in our front room and I suddenly remembered the ridiculous frustration I had felt when all of the mountains of baby stuff was just sitting in there, waiting for what seemed like an eternity to be put away. Chris had been working diligently (and stressfully!) to finish the two bedrooms (ours and Lucy’s) with enough time to spare for everything to be put away. I wish now I hadn’t stressed out so much. I remember trying to picture myself sitting on the couch with a newborn, wondering (and stressing over) if I’d get the hang of breastfeeding… I remember having been so worried about that. I miss the excitement and anticipation we felt as we envisioned life with our baby girl that we just couldn’t wait to meet. It truly is the happiest story with the saddest ending. (I borrowed that line from McCracken’s An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination) So much lost. We won’t ever be able to go back to that innocence we once had; I think there will always be a hint of a shadow cast over everything.

Halloween. Not ‘Happy’, just… Halloween. Today hurts more than I thought it would. All I can think about is life in the parallel universe that exists in my mind and heart. In that parallel universe, it’d be a fun, exciting day and I’d probably have Lucy dressed in a sweet little fuzzy honeybee costume, ready to go show her off to the world. I imagine we’d have gone up to the school first, to visit with Mindy our school secretary, and then buzz by Daddy’s classroom, maybe leaving candy behind for the students. We’d probably take a little road trip to visit with all of Lucy’s wonderful Grandmas, posing for pictures, and we’d all ooh and ah over how stinkin’ cute she is. There’d be sweet photos on Facebook and Instagram of her adorableness. We’d probably get home in time for a little nap and Daddy would be home soon after, we’d get dinner together and happily await the potential trick-or-treaters with the porch light on.

Instead, I am here alone, wishing for something that will never be, with tears in my eyes, a headache, and a broken heart. And this is only the beginning of the holiday season. I want to leave the porch light off tonight.

But, I’ll find a way to make it through this day, just as I have for the past 82 days.

Happy Halloween, Lucy, my sweet little honeybee. I love you so much.