Rainbows and butterflies

Today is one of those days I'm truly grateful for.

Ron and I went to the doctor's this morning for my post-op follow up ... the appointment I was simultaneously anxiously waiting for and hating the idea of going to since the day I called to schedule it. I think I hated the idea of going because I was so afraid there would be no answers.

But that's not what happened.

There were answers. A few. Enough to make the pain even more bearable; enough to guide me through the oncoming waves of grief. I know they're coming ashore again. They're going to wash over me once all of this sinks in a little more.

I am more than my miscarriages

Life changing news. I wrote about it because that's one of the best (maybe the only) ways I can get a grip on my emotions.

When I was younger, all this emotion and writing and pouring myself into an outlet was secret. There were notebooks and random stashes of folded up paper that lived in my back jeans' pockets that I would pull out and fill with angry, bitter poetry. A lot of anger. A lot of bitter.

This is where I come now. I try to make sure my thoughts are fairly well put together before I hit "publish." This is a space where I feel I can get out all my feelings - whether they're about stupid shit my kids are doing, the random places I find sippy cups, my love of cloth diapers, or my incessant need to finish writing the novel that should have been done months ago as soon as possible (because ASAP just makes more sense than an actual deadline when I have two small children) - but I also like to consider it a safe place for others to join some of these conversations.

Usually everyone just comments on the link I post on my Facebook page. That's fine.

Tonight, while I reflect on our loss - a child who won't get to spend Christmas with us next year - I also reflect on our gains throughout the year.

The waves and stages of grief

We may never know what happened and I'm trying to make peace with that.

"This was an abnormal pregnancy."

"It's nothing you did. This isn't something you could have prevented."

"I saw what might be a couple small tumors."

"It's possible there was a molar pregnancy."

"I'll be doing a suction D&C to reduce the possibility of scarring on your uterus."

"We might not get any answers."

Coping my way through

Out of habit, I'm a strong person. Like, strong enough that I'm able to hold my shit together during some of the most difficult times.

Except with death. I tend to go all in when it comes to death - cleaning, working, once (singular, one time) it was drinking ... and rarely since then have I mixed my white wines with my reds when consuming entire bottles on my own.

On Tuesday, I scrubbed the kitchen floor and did laundry and tried any way I could to not let my mind be idle because, as I said to one friend, and idle mind is the Devil's playground. I knew if I sat still long enough, the what ifs and what did I do wrongs would sneak in. The last thing the girls need from me right now is for depression to take hold. I can't let depression win in this because I've already lost enough, I'm already coping with enough. I don't need to forget how to get up in the morning or put on jeans or smile. I've still been able to smile through the pain because I was given the opportunity to carry this baby for however long I was supposed to. I can feel blessed knowing I served that purpose.

Let go and let God

These days my Facebook page reads less like the diary of an alcoholic writer and more ... domestic.

I mean, I've always been pretty domestic - baking and cooking and momming - but usually it's mixed in with a decent dose of hashtags about wine o'clock and Wine Wednesday and day drinking. There's been none of that recently.

Actually, when I wrote a majority of this post initially last week, I was pretty sure that once this entry was read through entirely, I would get comments like "Oh I totally knew ... because you weren't posting about drinking." To which I'm just going to respond right now - don't post shit like that to anyone ever. For starters, you make people sound like they really do have a drinking problem, which, for me, is the furthest thing from the truth. If I had a drinking problem, I wouldn't be posting about how much I drink or want to drink because when I'm dealing with a life problem (like depression ... because that has been an actual issue in my life) I don't say a thing about it on social media. The only reason anyone other than my husband, close family or really close friends know about me tackling the depression monster is because I finally opened up about it in this space; it's my space and I feel safe here.

But this isn't a post about that, how hard I work at being a mom, how much I despise car line and other Pre-K parents or funny stories about drinking wine and writing a novel.

This is the hardest post I think I'll ever write. This is therapy.