Resilience

trigger warning: loss

Strangely enough, the week or so leading up to this miscarriage was full of some of the best days in recent memory.  I wasn’t feeling super nauseous (now I know why – at the time I thought I was just rounding the second trimester corner), Fox was in really good spirits and we were spending lots of time in nature and making art together.

Super Tuesday in particular was very exciting since he was so inquisitive about what the heck voting was – and since I voted at an elementary school he was beside himself that he got to go INSIDE A SCHOOL!  I wore him on my back as he peered over my shoulder and chanted, “Bernie Sanders!” while I cast my vote.  (Thank you kind poll volunteers for smiling and chuckling rather than scowling at my vocal passenger.)  His “I Voted!” sticker is a prized possession.

It’s been a struggle looking back on those days.  Every morning starting with some kisses for the baby and sweet “Good morning!”s from a presumed soon-to-be big brother.  We were both full of such joy.  It stings to know that the baby was already gone, we just didn’t know.

I have these moments of intense anger, feeling betrayed – tricked – into a feeling that everything was finally going to be alright.  Angry that my son was brought into it this time – old enough to understand what was going on.  Old enough to ask us what happened and why.  Old enough to deserve answers that took all my strength to give him.

But, in the rare lulls where I can calm that fire to embers, I can see some beauty in all of it. How can such joy and sweetness from my son be anything but a gift?  Would I really rather not have experienced that?  Even in this sea of grief, if I can recall his smile and the sound of his voice when talking about “our baby” I almost can’t help smiling.  It was amazing.  The joy we felt together in that short time – the way it added to our days… it was real and it is not to be forgotten or buried.  It was a good feeling we shared.  Even if it couldn’t last.

We’ve, of course, had some rough days since.  He has struggled during these days where I haven’t been physically capable of doing all we usually do together.  He has his Dad, Aunties and Grandmother – but he wants his Mama.  It’s been difficult.  But, as I heal, I reassure him that this is temporary and while he can’t scale me like a mountain right now, he can have all the hugs and kisses he wants and before he knows it we will be running down trails again.

He is, almost above all else, resilient.  I am trying to follow his lead in this regard.  It’s astounding how accepting he is of what has happened.  He has expressed sadness on multiple occasions, a bit of worry or fear about what this all means, but he tells us what he is feeling and after we talk about it, he will often just hop away… happy as a clam.

I watch and learn.  I, of course, have a different perspective and role in all this than my 2.5 year old… but he reminds me that we all have the ability to come back from a blow.  My recovery will be longer, more complicated for sure, but I look at him and I already know in my heart that I will eventually be okay.  Amazing the things we can learn from our children when we pay attention.

 

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