Right Where I Am Project: 1 Year and 3 weeks

Dear Stevie,
Wow, I think this is the longest I've ever gone without writing to you. Almost an entire month. Granted, this last month has been uncharacteristically crazy. Your first birthday. Mother's Day. A big event I've been working on at work. One Grandma's death, after a long, drawn-out decline in health. Then the other Grandma, quite unexpectedly. Six days in Puerto Rico with the girls. Dad getting laid off from his job. Now, an awful, nasty cold that won't seem to go away. Still, even with all that's been going on, there isn't a day, no, not even a moment, where you aren't on my mind. Sometimes you're way back there, barely even noticeable. Other times, you're front and center, controlling my every thought, my mood, my state of being. But you're always there.

I love Angie's idea of describing where we are in our grief journey, right here, right now. First of all, because I am loving catching up with my old blog friends, and second of all, because I really needed an excuse (really, a big kick in the ass) to reconnect with this space, this part of my life, you.

So, where am I today? One year and three weeks from the day you died?

It feels like I'm in the exact same place as I was one year and three weeks ago. Still not pregnant (and it seems like I'm literally the only one out there that's not these days!). Still not sure I'll ever be. Or want to be for that matter. Still restless. Still angry, though not as bitter. Still sad, though better at burying it. Still trying to appreciate my life for what it is, still convinced it will never be quite as good as it could have been.

I'm right back to where I was last summer. Only this time, I feel even more alone than ever before.

Last summer, I immersed myself in this world where everyone understood. Everyone felt the same way. We were all so united in our grief. It was so fresh and so raw. And that was good, that was "okay," even by the rest of the world's, the "outsider's" perspective. I had this secret world I could escape to whenever I needed to feel normal.

But that's all changed. And it's no one's fault. I'm not angry about it. It just is what it is.

I feel like there is this trajectory a babyloss mom is supposed to follow: lose baby, grieve really, really hard for three to five months, start trying to get pregnant again, get pregnant again with three to five cycles, find healing and acceptance through this new life, this new rainbow of hope. It's a beautiful story. But what happens when you stray from this path? What happens when there is no new hope? What if instead there's only disapointment, confusion, questions, and unrest? How does this all come full-circle when no rainbow appears after the storm?

I guess I'm trying to learn (and accept) that maybe some of our "rainbows" come in different forms. Yesterday I got an approval letter from the IRS, stating that Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope is now an official 501(c)(3) national public charity. My dream of starting my own nonprofit in your name, coming true--is that a rainbow in my sky? Being forced to let go of the silly idea that I have any sort of real control over what happens in my life, and learn to live in the now and go with the flow--does that count? Discovering this enormous supply of strength and self-confidence inside myself that I never even knew was there--if I search my sky hard enough, I think I can see some colors peaking out from behind the clouds.

I have to believe that for me, my "rainbow" is not a new baby, but a new me.

I love you, Stevie. I can't imagine a day ever going by without me wondering who you'd be, what you'd be like, had you not died one year and three weeks ago.

Missing you,
Mom