I have written this post a hundred times.
In my head. On post-its. On this post.
But I always delete it.
Angie at still life with circles has had her link for Right Where I am Project up HERE for weeks now. I faithfully did last year's post as soon as I heard about it. It was the reason I decided to move all of my grief posts to their own blog. This year?
Where am I?
I just don't know.
I am here.
But I am not here.
I am happy.
But I am not happy.
I am sad.
But I am not sad.
My cup runneth over.
But my cup remains empty.
What does all that mean? Why do I ramble so? I am usually not one to mince words. I certainly don't have problems speaking my mind most times. And my friends can tell you that I can ramble and ramble and I usually make sense.
But three years. Three years ago today is D-day. Diagnosis day.
Three years ago seems so near....yet so far. Time is yawning. Yet the pain is just under the surface. The pain is under the skin and if you touch me just right, it will seep out. Oozing my anger. Oozing my hopelessness. Oozing my sadness.
Yes. I have fooled everyone. I have fooled everyone into believing that I was better. That I was perfectly fine.
But the ones closest to me know better. My husband worries about me. My boys protect me. A few friends know to ask the "right" question. The normal passer-by says "How are you doing?". I say "great..busy, but great!" But these friends? They say "No, really, how are you doing? I think about you all the time and pray for your family."
They are the very few that actually remember that we went through our own personal hell three years ago. They are the ones that know that I may pull the ole Heidi big smile "Nothing wrong over here" dance. But they call me on it.
With the grief...there are the physical changes that just don't help. My abdomen became so stretched out from all of the extremely excessive amniotic fluid with Jamie and then compounded by a quick pregnancy just 7 months later. I always had a nice 2 year gap to recuperate between the other children, but the Empty Arm Syndrome hit me HARD after she was born. And as so many say, though your empty arms are filled with joy, you can't pretend that the one that is missing never was there. The extra weight, the stretched skin, the stretched abdominal muscles. They all just magnify, in the most harshest sense, what wasn't meant to be.
So I trudge. I try my best to find balance. I try not to cry when I read the stories of all babies gone too soon. The moms trying to carry to term just to spend a little more time. I try not to cry when I see a blonde haired toddler with a precious dress on. I try not to cry TOO much when I watch Tinkerbell, Sleeping Beauty, Pride and Prejudice, or Steel Magnolias, the movies I was finally going to get to watch with my girl. I try not to cry when I see the adorable, frilly, ruffled creations that my sewing friends make. I try not to wallow in my own misery while I make a pink quilt for someone else's girl.
I pretend that when I am out and about, I don't care that people ask me "No girl?" or "Going to try for the girl?" or "You need a girl."
I also won't cry that no one, really remembers, other than myself, that today is such a meaningful day. That I am the only one who remembers on this very date, three years ago, we found out something was really, really wrong. That it was the date that started all the questioning and wondering. It was the date that led us to the realization that her condition was fatal and the ultimate decision to keep her inside her safe, warm, and comfortable cocoon as long as I could.
I pretend that it doesn't matter.
I don't know who I am fooling more...them or myself?
