Thoughts

I know I said I'd pick up with a recap of Gracie's funeral service for all of those who were there with us in spirit but unable to attend. There are other things weighing on my heart today, though, so we'll have a brief interlude before I get to that post.

*sigh*

This week has been so interesting. It's strange to be on the other side of it all. We were living in this awful limbo before we lost her, knowing what was to come, but not knowing how or when. Now it has all happened, and it's over, and she's really gone. Now what? There's no "getting back to normal". I don't even know what "normal" is supposed to be. We have been forever changed - we're just not the same people we were - so rather than "return" to some state that once felt "normal" before, we're left to move forward into something new. A new life as new people. We'll have the same jobs, the same house, the same routines, but who we are and the way we will live and the perspective through which we will now view the world will make all of that "same" stuff feel different.

It's an uncomfortable sort of feeling, knowing that nothing will ever be the same. Part of me wants to return to some comfy, cozy place in my mind that feels familiar, but most of me wants to be changed. I don't want our world to return to the way it was before Gracie, as if she never existed, and as if we had never been through this life-changing experience that grew our hearts and our faith so profoundly. We are snuggling Eli closer, rocking him longer before bed, taking more photos, and cherishing more moments. We are holding each other tighter, being more affectionate, sitting closer together on the couch, feeling a more intense need to be in each others' presence. Everything is amplified, which unfortunately includes the sadness and the longing for our little girl, but on the positive side it has drawn all three of us closer to one another in so many ways, and it feels really good.

As time marches on, certain things are beginning to return to normal. My body, for one thing, is approaching a more normal state. No more heartburn, no more swollen ankles, no more headaches. No more tight wedding rings. No more painful engorgement, as my milk surge recedes. No more 23-week pregnant belly, just some extra postpartum flab left behind. I notice more and more each day how quickly my body is snapping back to what it was before Gracie... and I truly hate it. I don't exactly want to continue to look pregnant. I don't like heartburn or cankles. I didn't enjoy being so uncomfortably engorged for days, wearing frozen cabbage leaves and ice packs around the house. But all of those little things were the remaining evidence of her - that my baby girl had been growing inside my belly, that she was real and alive. As it all slips away, I feel as if I'm losing my grip on some piece of her.

I know that as time heals us, it will also allow her memory to fade a little, to feel more distant. My second born, my first little girl, my daughter Grace Adalyn will never ever be forgotten in this home, but I know how memories work. We will do all we can to keep her memory alive, to commemorate her life, to reflect on the ways she blessed us, to remind her siblings of her place in our family, but I know that I won't always feel her the way I feel her now. The freshness of the loss, the sharpness of the pain, the strength of the ache in my heart will all dull with time. That's probably the only way we could continue to move forward with our lives, but part of me just wants to stay right here where I can still clearly remember what her body felt like in my arms, the way this loss feels deep in my chest, how cool her cheeks felt on my lips. I don't want any of those sensations to fade. Maybe they have to, as part of this healing process, in order to curb the pain. And maybe at some point I'll feel ready for that - ready to let go of the pain and allow it to fade. But right now I just want to feel all of it, because it's all I have left of her inside of me. I have photos and keepsakes and the memories of family and friends who came alongside us in this process, but the only way I can really feel her anymore is to feel the pain left behind. Fortunately she also left behind  many blessings to be felt - the closeness we're now feeling in our little family unit, the warmth of our friends and family who have surrounded us with love and prayers and encouragement, the outpouring of support from strangers and distant acquaintances, the reminders of how her story has touched lives.

What it all adds up to, though, is a whole lot of intense emotion. Both the blessings and the pain are enough to bring a person to their knees. It makes for a whole lot of tears, but they're not all bad. As I've said several times already, even the tears of heartache are welcome, in my mind. I feel an intense need to feel all of it. For now, it's my way of clinging to her and honoring her and loving her. It's my experience of mothering her. As much as I wish I could have felt the joy of mothering her for a lifetime on this earth, if I can't have that, then I'll make the most of what experience I can have, and I'll savor it.