Grief: I'd Rather Not

Grief.

It's hard and weird and annoying.

It's like its own version of the movie Groundhog Day. 

You wake up every morning and for one glorious second you don't remember the painful reality that is your life.

mmmmm. What's today? What's on the schedule? What should we eat for breakfast?

And then . . . BAAM . . . it hits like a taser to the chest. 

oh yeah . . . my kids are dead.

Who cares about a freaking schedule? What does it matter what day it is? Every day brings the same unbearable reality; I should be pregnant with identical twin girls and I'm not.

I'm not pregnant. They're not here.


Grief.

It's the unwanted gift you get to unwrap every day. The gift you'd give anything to not receive upon waking every morning and yet it's the one you have to open lest you ignore it and suffer the severe consequences months down the road (think an unopened howler from Harry Potter).

Well hello, Grief.

Which version of you will I be in for today?

Numb Sarah? Angry Sarah? Anxious Sarah? Depressed Sarah? So-fatigued-id-rather-stay-in-bed Sarah? Or genuinely OK-for-the-moment Sarah (who probably feels a bit guilty for feeling OK. Is it OK to be OK? Who knows.).  

For the most part Ray and I do our best to welcome each day understanding that some level of grief will walk with us.

The trick is to welcome grief while walking with grace. Grace for ourselves, grace for each other, grace for those trying to figure out how to walk with us or at least not be too awkward in their avoidance of us.

Grief is rough. It's unpredictable, always present, and usually (at least this early on) painful.

Grief is a gift. It reminds us Maggie and Ellen were here. They were here and they were real. Real girls, apart of a real family, who really really loved them.


I had someone, who loves me very much, not too long ago ask - beg me really to consider a medical procedure that would prevent me from ever getting pregnant again (don't worry - this wasn't my husband).

"I'd rather not see you go through this pain ever again."

I get it. I really do.

7 children - only one living; the grief just seems too much.

But great grief means there is great love.

As  I write this, a tiny, nearly three-year-old had rests on my chest.  This hand is attached to the life that has taught me about love. This love, this life-altering, never-ending, I will move heaven and earth for you love, comes with great risk.

The risk is grief.

This grief - the one I wake up to every day and reluctantly walk with.

Even though I'd rather not walk with this great grief, one look to my left and the beautiful sleeping face next to me says it all . . . She's worth the risk.