Once again, I wrote something in my personal journal that is somehow well-written enough to share here. I think, after her birthday passes, I need to write about writing and the differences I have found in my process as of late. But as today is Birthday Eve, my mind cannot begin to form coherent thought on that topic. Instead:
Five years ago everyone that meant something in my life had plans. My parents were heading out for dinner and a Christmas concert to celebrate, a day in advance, their anniversary. My grandparents were headed out for a Christmas party. [My best friend] was heading out for dinner with her fiance. And [my now husband] was away with the Army that weekend. Even [Munchkin's intended parents] were unavailable, attending a Bon Jovi concert.
While I had had experienced several bouts of preterm labor that had to be stopped via various methods and doses of what we assume to be safe-for-baby drugs and a plethora of braxton hicks contractions, I knew when the contractions started that evening that it was different. The books you read, none of which had been given to prepare me for the impending birth of my firstborn, tell you that you’ll just know when it is time. I knew. And still, I said nothing. I was home alone with my fourteen year old brother.
I sat at mom’s laptop in the dining room, timing contractions as I played solitaire. As complicated as the pregnancy had been with the surgeries and ambulance trips and dramatic health issues, to say nothing of the emotionally taxing decisions that still hung in the air, I wasn’t quite ready for it to end. The night before, a Thursday evening, she had flipped and flopped and kicked so hard that I told my mother she was throwing a party within my womb. I did not know, however, that it was her going away party.
I went to bed before my parents returned home, resting on my side to see if the contractions would stop. They did not. When my parents arrived home, I called the hospital to ask whether or not they would send me home if I had not dilated any more seeing as how I was only 38 weeks. When I received what I already knew to be the answer, I just went ahead and attempted to sleep.
And Friday, December 12, 2003 drew to a close as I rested my head on that pillow. It was the last day that I was ever her only mother. It was the last day that she was truly mine. It wasn’t yet her birth day as my water wouldn’t break until 4:30 in the morning. But it was the last day she was mine and mine alone. Even in the hospital, it was a different story.
I think, perhaps, this year is hitting me so hard as the days of the week are the same as they were five years ago. If today was a Wednesday, I don’t know if I would be so stricken with emotion. I am also partly blaming the blasted full moon. I have just now burst into tears. it’s going to be a very long weekend. I am thankful for the distraction of my concert, but it doesn’t remove the hurt, the loss.
Nothing ever will, I suppose.
I have, if you’ve been reading our family blog, forced myself to remain positive this week. I will do so again tomorrow. But I will also allow myself this room to breathe and feel. I do not feel that being honest about these emotions is whining, or, really, I hope that they are not perceived as such. I think I’ve passed, long ago, the whining phase of this healing process of mine. I will, of course, admit to going through the phase: the “why me, this sucks, someone make it better” phase. I believe we must all pass through that, whatever our journey.
As I sit here, dressed nicely after a good, cathartic, full-on cry in the shower, I feel much better. I am back in my positive frame of mind even though my heart, as to be expected, aches. It helps, perhaps, that snowflakes are dancing outside of the window to my right. They’re not falling exactly; a light breeze is blowing and, as the snowflakes are the small, flitty kind and not the big, fat kind, they are litterally dancing their way to the ground. Like my oldest son, the Munchkin came into the world on a snowy day. It wasn’t yet snowing five years ago now, but on her birthday the world was coated in white.
I will make it through this birthday, like every year. I have no doubt that I will shed a few more tears, seeing as how I just got misty-eyed again. But, again most likely attributed to the amount of healing that I have done this year, I am feeling better able to handle it. Not un-sad. But better able to acknowledge that sadness, process it properly and still find room for the joy that is, literally, all around me.
I would, therefore, admit to some improvement in how I handle this birthday issue. In prior years, I never would have been able to acknowledge or celebrate any type of joy at this time. I would have let the weight of the grief and loss overwhelm me and suck any life out of what was going on in my life. I think that as I realize I have moved past that phase, well, I feel very proud of the work that I have done this year.
There is hope yet. Or, perhaps better stated, there is always hope. Always.