Oh, May

Ah, May, you have turned out to be as difficult as I imagined you would be.

On April 29th, Emily's three month birthday, I had a great day.  I felt good.  Sometime that evening, I realized that it was her three month birthday, and I hadn't lost it that day.  Hey, look, progress!  Then, May 1st hit, and things crumbled again-

May, the month of planting when we thought we'd be juggling a new baby and a crazy work schedule.  May, when my husband starts working 6 am to 11 pm, and I don't have anyone to hand life off to while I go cry.   May, when my older kids hit exciting milestones and I feel both joy for them and sadness that Emily won't hit those milestones.  May, when I go back to school, something I love but know I wouldn't be doing it if I had a newborn baby in my arms.  May, when mother's day hit which is normally one of my least favorite days of the year, but hit harder this year.  I will never have the joy of seeing my daughter become a mother. 

It has been a month of finding our way on a new path.  And, it has been hard, but I'm making it. 

Emily's due date was sometime in the last week or so.  Dated by ovulation, it was May 22.  Dated by ultrasound, it was May 19.  Since I have medical issues that require a very closely watched delivery, I am normally induced a week early.  That means that Emily would have been born sometime around May 12-15.  I had no idea how I was going to mark these dates.  They are points on a path that doesn't exist.

Quite by accident, the last week or so has been full of Emily-things, more than any other week since her funeral.  We have planned on planting a tree in her memory since her death.  Tom suddenly found himself with an afternoon off, so we went and got it and planted it.  And, we've placed her headstone.  We couldn't have planned it better. 

On May 22, Tom called me to tell me they were on their way with Emily's headstone.  I had wanted to be there when it was placed.  So, we went. There has been a temporary sign at her grave next to a black pile of dirt.  As I stepped back and saw her headstone and sod, not dirt, it blended into the cemetery.  It no longer stuck out, screaming at everyone who went there "This death is new and raw."  It has become a permanent monument to her. 

And that is just what this grief is- permanent. It is a part of our story, a permanent fixture in my life and in my children's lives.  There is something oddly comforting to know that.  Emily, her whole story with the joy and grief that goes with it, will always be there.  I can visit her grave any time.  I can visit the grief any time.  I can go to ball games, and amusement parks, and read to my kids, and throw myself into a good novel, and go out with friends, and do all of those things, too.  And, in all of those fun and joyful parts of life, the grief will be waiting, ready for me to visit.

One thought that I've had again and again throughout this process is that Emily didn't experience any of these things.  But, she is sealed to us.  She is a part of us.  What if that bond allows her to experience earth life through us?  I know she is with us often, at good times and bad, and realizing that she depends entirely on us for her earthly experience makes me think about what I am teaching her about this earth life.  Do we make it one of joy and happiness?  Do we allow ourselves to fully feel the grief and sadness?  We do both, and we do them at the same time.  We live, experience, feel, and let Emily exist as part of all of that. 

I wouldn't choose this path for me or my family, but I'm on it and we are figuring it out.