On this day a year ago our first baby became an angel.
Time has seesawed between lightning speed and painful stillness. At this moment it seems like a fraction of a year has passed since our loss–certainly not 12 months. The feelings aren’t as raw, and talking about the miscarriage doesn’t trigger a negative response, but I can’t imagine that a whole year of life has occurred without me noticing. Not only that, I’m in awe that this year has had so many moments of beauty existing alongside the aching sadness. Weddings, births, recoveries, graduations, fresh starts, etc. dot the landscape of this past year, lifting away some of the dampness that sadness left behind.
Our own happiness this year has been the arrival of our rainbow baby, C.
As seems to be the case in my reflections, the expectation of the anniversary causes more distress than the actual day. Most of the time I’m blindsided with subconscious thoughts and feelings that swim their way to the surface when I’m vulnerable.
When we first brought C home I looked at him and thought about how perfect he is. Then I thought about how beautiful Angel could have been. I was never able to imagine what Angel might have looked like, but looking at C’s features gives me a little idea, and that’s both beautiful and difficult.
I’ve held C and thought that there should have been an older sibling in the home to gush over him with me. (I’m aware that C wouldn’t be here if Angel had survived, but its the little fantasies of what “should/could have been” that parents deal with.)
On days when I’m exhausted and C can’t be pacified I find myself getting impatient, which leads to guilt and shame. I’ve asked myself how I could have possibly been a good mother to Angel if I’m so impatient with C after a couple of weeks.
The first week we were home I cried over feeling like we made a mistake having a baby because our lives would never be the same. We wanted C so badly, especially after Angel died, and I felt very guilty.
I wrote a song for Angel which I’ve shared on this platform before. I wrote it with the intent that I could sing it to any child of mine and it would have a universal message of love. I think I misjudged the impact though because I can’t get through singing it to C without crying. The song’s message is from a mother to her child saying that she wishes they wouldn’t have to go away, but she’s willing to wait to hold them again. Maybe with some more time C will be able to hear me sing it all the way through.
The hardest part to pinpoint and process, though, has been the spiritual healing. The emotions and thoughts can be processed and figured out, but the difficulty lies in rebuilding trust in God. There’s a willingness to thank Him for the good things, but a guarded disconnection when it comes to praying for needs. Sermons and songs don’t make me angry anymore, but asking God to have a hand in my personal life is a different beast. I think deep down I have a grudge against Him for allowing the miscarriage to happen. What other things could He allow? Why should I pray for things when I might be disappointed? But in the same train of thought I know that He’s already at work pursuing me because that’s what He does.
20 Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.–Revelation 3:20
All of this sharing is just to say these few things:
C isn’t a replacement for Angel.
Grief over their passing hits at unexpected times.
I don’t feel the need to be exclusively thankful or distraught every moment.
A year isn’t enough to work through the things of the mind, heart, and soul.
I will never be ‘over it’, but I can certainly be ‘okay’–even ‘great’.
Sharing might get harder as the years pass and as more reasons to be positive present themselves, but this is my personal reminder that every part of my life has a seat at the table.
Love you, Angel. Thank you for watching over your brother. We can’t wait to meet you one day.
Drops of Jules 