Everything I’ve written about Raya has flown out of me. I could never grab my computer quick enough to get all the words down in the right order.
This morning I grabbed my computer, opened a new post, and stared at the screen.
There were no words.
There was no possible way to make sense of the past year.
The only thing that kept coming to mind and out of my mouth was praising God for letting me survive it.
Because there were moments I truly didn’t think I would.
There were moments I physically ached from the understanding that my child would never be earth side with me.
Moments I woke up in the middle of the night to go downstairs and stare at the s’mores onesie my mama bought her when I was 16 weeks pregnant.
As I got out of bed and left for a walk, I tried again to make sense of it.
Now that it’s been a year, am I still allowed to be sad?
Is there a timeframe that mothers can grieve for their child?
Or is there not, and I’m just supposed to grieve forever?
Because both sound like short ends of the stick.
Am I still allowed to talk about her? Bring her name up in conversation?
Or will I be the girl that “is still talking about her dead child”?
At what point am I supposed to have “closure”?
What if I don’t want closure?
I remember this day last year like it was happening all over again.
Driving to the hospital at 5am, getting sick from the meds.
Gregg pretending to agree with the nurse to wait in the truck because #COVID but actually scoping out a hidden corner down the hall to wait.
Staring out the window on the way home unable to speak.
For fear that speaking would make it real.
And fear of feeling the pain from being intubated.
I remember the moment I became pregnant.
And I remember waking up from surgery and instantly not feeling pregnant.
I remember my milk coming in three days later.
I remember waking up 3-4 times a night soaked from night sweats.
I even remember the chill of the air when I walked outside for the first time to take the trash out.
I remember everything.
Trying so hard to get pregnant the moment I was cleared, hoping shifting the focus to a new pregnancy would somehow eliminate the pain from losing the first one.
But that didn’t happen.
Getting through the holidays.
Then the new year.
Finally getting a weekend away to not think about the pain, and then hearing someone else announce a pregnancy and feeling pressure to share in their joy.
In reality, wondering what on earth I did wrong to find myself where I stood.
Her due date.
Mother’s Day.
Tuesdays, Fridays, Sundays.
They all sucked.
Walking through Target past all the new baby girl clothes and physically feeling the effects of not having a baby to hold.
I was constantly teetering between “things happen for a reason” and “I’ll give someone 8 million dollars to provide that reason so I don’t have to guess”.
I’m not sure I will ever understand why Raya had to arrive and leave so soon.
But if I absolutely had to guess.
If my happiness and sanity depended on it (which it does).
I’d have to think that there were so many prayers going up last year, that not every prayer could be answered.
And when I think of it in that sense; that my prayer wasn’t answered because there was a different mama out there that needed her prayer answered more.
The pain lessens ever so slightly.
My prayer may not have been answered because God knew I had a strong supportive family to get us through the pain.
And on that day, someone that would not have been in such a supported position needed God more.
And that, I can accept.
