Even though 9 months have passed since we had/lost Sophia, I still have no idea what I am doing.  I still don’t understand how to do this.  I struggle with knowing where to go from here.  I struggle with knowing just how much people want to hear about her, or how little.  I struggle with going on like business as usual.

Some days are better than others but I still constantly struggle with feeling unsettled.  This unsettled feeling has just made itself at home in my heart and doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.  This feeling that something is missing in my day just eats at me.

Sometimes I watch her ultrasound videos of that little heart beating away, her squirming all around, and her chin-quivering yawns, and still can’t believe it’s true.

Physically, things look “normal” but inside I still feel raw.

The kids broke a wish bone recently and the teary-eyed little girl who got the smaller piece cried out, “My wish will NEVER come true!”  She then went on to exclaim that she has been wishing and praying that I would have a baby because she really wants a baby in our family.  She really wants to be a big sister.

It is so difficult to comfort her, knowing that I wish and pray for the same thing.  Knowing that she feels cheated too.

Knowing that it really just isn’t fair.

I struggle with answering simple questions like, “How are you?”  Sometimes I really just want to tell the truth but I imagine that the person asking probably really doesn’t want to hear all of that.  

I hurt.  I am not OK.  My baby died inside my womb.  I never got to see her take a breath or even just move.  I gave birth to an empty vessel, a tiny, still body, an angel.  My heart is still broken.  I had to bury my child!  Mark and I already have our cemetery plots!  I miss her like crazy.  I want to have more kids but the clock is ticking and my body isn’t cooperating. I feel like a failure.  I hate this reality.  I miss being pregnant.

IMG_0568 (1024x768){July 2, 2012}

I also know, it could be worse.  As any mother, I worry.  But at least for her, I don’t need to stress over her safety and comfort.  I know where she is and how wonderful her life will always be and that gives me great comfort.

But please excuse me if I seem like a turtle with her head tucked deep inside her shell.  Sometimes it’s just scary to peek out there and face the world around me knowing that a part of me is gone and always will be.

Please be patient with me when I don’t have words to join in a conversation but also when I say too much.

Please be sensitive to the fact that it is hard for me to get out of bed some days and even when I do, I long to crawl back in.

Please understand that I don’t mean to forget things all the time, I just can’t seem to keep it all together any more.

Please allow me to cry and be sad and please don’t feel like you have to cheer me up, but don’t judge me when I laugh deeply and feel true joy either.

Please continue to ask how I am doing, how we are doing.  And if you can handle it, please wait and let me know that it’s ok to say what I really want to.

Please don’t think that I should be moving on and getting over it.  That will never happen.

Please give me permission to figure out how to do this in whatever way I can.

Please don’t assume things.

Please continue to pray for us.

“You formed my inmost being;

you knit me in my mother’s womb.

I praise you, because I am wonderfully made;

wonderful are your works!”

Psalm 139: 13-14

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