there are little moments that keep me going.
for some reason, every time i see a yellow butterfly i think of my daughter's soul gliding past me. it is summer as i write this and most days i see at least one. that makes me feel less alone, less trapped in a life without her. i wonder what i will do in the winter.
my two-year-old, God bless him, whose stubbornness and manic energy used to wear me down, has been my salvation. his enthusiasm for life is infectious, and he also narrates every thought he has, which i find hilarious. i love the way he melts with laughter when i count his toes or make his monster truck jump over a pile of blocks. i love kissing his chubby cheeks. i worry about spoiling him, and i probably am, and right now i don't care. when he is in my arms, i feel a little more whole.
sitting outside with my kids and watching them run and play in the sun, just being kids, is healing for me. it is bittersweet - through loving them and the people they are becoming, i also get a glimpse of how much i've lost: the baby i will not see grow into a little girl and run and play with her brothers and sister. but i am still blessed with three happy, healthy children, ka"h, and the sound of their laughter, of their conversations with each other, and the feel of their hands in mine are gifts that i have come to appreciate like never before.
there are a few books that have helped. in brene brown's "rising strong," she writes about her research on what happy and resilient people have in common - and among them is the belief that "most people are just doing their best." you wouldn't think that this relates directly to what happened to me, but it has actually brought me great comfort at a time when it is so easy to feel crushed by the insensitive things others sometimes do or say. time and time again in the last few weeks, when my instinct has been to react to someone with outrage or deep pain, i've heard that voice in my head saying, "they're just doing the best they can." it has allowed me to let go of a lot of the early anger ("how could they say that to me? how could they not think about what this feels like for me?") that just compounded my sadness with another stressful emotion.
another book that has provided me with helpful tools is sheryl sandberg's "option b." it was recommended to me by another mother who lost her baby when he was only a few weeks old. sandberg's descriptions of how grief feels made me feel less alone, and while i know she didn't invent this, she shared a concept that has stayed with me: there are three P's that make grief especially painful - personalization ("this is my fault"), pervasiveness ("everything in my life has been damaged by this") and permanence ("i will feel like this forever"). by teaching me to notice these thoughts, which i could easily demonstrate to myself were untrue - "the doctors say nothing i could have done could have prevented this," "i am still alive and healthy; my other children are still alive," "i have moments where i smile and laugh and am not crying" - the book gave me hope that slowly, the anguish of losing my baby would at least subside into something less all-consuming.
lately i have been listening to a book called "grief works." (it amazes me what books i will pick up now that i would never have touched before). this is a collection of stories by an experienced therapist who draws some general conclusions about grief from her work with the bereaved over the years. she is almost clinical in her discussion of something so intangible, but one line she's written rings true for me: "the work of grief is to master the paradox of learning to live in a reality that we do not want to be true."
i feel like this is my whole life now. but it is oddly comforting to know that so many people live this way that it can be perfectly described by a total stranger.