I'm sitting here bopping my head to Olivia's techno piano playing. Those electronic pianos. The louder-than-necessary, have-to-play-it-all-the-time-or-I-will-die key boards. Oh yes. Those ones. Bring it on.
I have a new talent. Now this one, I have REALLY perfected. It involves my mouth and my foot. Get the picture?
I find myself feeling a little irritated tonight. I've been reading through my normal set of blogs, but some how missed some posts. Dude. Don't even get me started.
Where am I at now? I'm kinda at that faze where every one else has forgotten about Issac, and most people are tapping their fingers in anticipation for me to "get over it" already. You have the well-meaning folk that think they "understand" where you're at, and think they can some how just hurry you up through the process. Then the others that still hide from you in fear that - heaven forbid - you mention you dead child's name. And then you have those friends - you know, the really good ones, that have managed to stick by you, through thick and thin, just letting you be - ya know - your "new" self.
Let me take a stab at explaining what nearly 5 months means to me. Isaac will have been dead for 5 months now on September 8th. It still seems like yesterday I placed him in his casket for the last time.
I have now endured 5 months of endless heartache. I still miss my baby, still wouldn't mind taking him back, still cry for him every day. It is still hard for me to see other babies. I still cry nearly every time I speak about him. My heart still aches, it physically hurts. My mind wanders to him many times a day. I am still grieving.
I still like my house the best. I still like, for the most part, not seeing people. I like my safe place, even if does not include many people around me. I hate feeling like I'm being hurried up. I hate the impatience I see, the irritation of not being "myself" yet. It angers me, like I should have to explain to some one else that has no clue, that how I'm doing, is just fine. My children are cared for and loved. I work 25 hours a week. I keep a tidy home. I prepare healthy meals for my children. I play card games and basketball and take walks and chat on the phone and read and blog and laugh and play. I do all those things, and yet my heart is still broken.
I find it offensive when another would question my faith in God, because I still grieve for my son. Make no mistakes friends, I know where my child is. I know he lives. As much as I know that he lives, I know that I must learn to live my life with out him here in my home. And for one second, imagine it for yourself. Imagine carrying your baby for 25 weeks, and then being told he would die then be willing to carry him for 15 weeks more. Love him, feel him alive, then plan his funeral. Plan his funeral and plan how to say goodbye. Figure out how to watch your children's hearts break. Figure out how to manage their sorrow and then your own. Give birth to your baby. Meet him. Feel his heart beat. Watch him die in your arms, along with all of your dreams of raising him. Feel your love for him, you love him no less than your other children, but know his life was meant only to be a fleeting moment because your Maker and your son's called him home. Come home empty handed and broken hearted. Feel your body heal, but realize your heart isn't. Place your baby in his casket, listen to your children sob, feel your body heave with sorrow. Imagine your child arms length under ground. Figure out with all your might how to move on. Figure out how to grieve so that you don't alarm your children. Figure out how to keep your grief hidden. Miss your child. Dream of him. Remember him. Remember that he's dead. Imagine how it was to carry a child to term, and in one breath say hello and goodbye. Don't for one minute think that my journey has to meet your expectations, it's barely meeting mine.