Are you there God? It's me, Anne.

There have been times over these past few months that I have told God that I hate him (and yes, I did duck out of the way in case lightening struck after I said it).  There have been times I have screamed at God until my throat was raw.  There have been times that I have told God that I give up, that either he is not who he says he is, or he isn't listening.

A friend once told me that in order to have a real relationship, to really love someone, you have to go through every season with them.  She said that is the only way that you can really know them.  Until now, until I lost Rip, I've never really had a reason to be mad at God.  Every season of my life has been a nearly perfect spring.  It comes as no surprise to me that this has been the coldest winter that I can remember having. 

I wish that I could say that God has answered me every time that I have cried out but, honestly, sometimes I have not heard a thing.  But I still believe he is there.  Maybe that is his answer to me.  That despite my anger and my doubt, my faith is still there.  My hope is that faith will keep me hanging on and this cold winter will melt away into another nearly perfect spring.

Help Wanted

Grieving is a full-time job.  Which is really inconvenient when you actually have a full-time job, not to mention family, friends, and other obligations you are shirking because this grief thing is so all-consuming.

I hate that I can be in the middle of something important, only to have one little thing brush up against the tender wound that is grief and ruin the rest of my day.

It seems more than a little unfair to require somebody, who has already suffered through a tragedy, to then have to turn around and work so hard at grieving "successfully". 

The fact is, despite everything else you have going on in your life, grief demands the most attention.  I wish I could put out a want ad, "Life wanted, full-time griever needed". Any takers? Didn't think so.

I think, therefore I worry

Today I tried to write about what was going on inside my head, only to find there was too much in there for me to make a coherent thought, much less write.

Sometimes it seems like there is so much to think and worry about that I can't actually DO anything.

I think about Rip
I think about Parke
I think about having another baby
I think about what if something happens to another baby
I think about my family
I think about my friends
I think about disappointing all of the above
I think about insurance
I think about money
I think about work
I think about never-written thank you notes

I worry about all of the above...

And for today at least, that is the best I can do.

A different kind of miracle

After Rip died, I had several people tell me that I needed to watch the episode of Oprah that tells the story of  this family , who tragically lost their three children to a car accident only to have triplets almost one year later.  The triplets, two boys and a girl, are the same genders as the children they lost.

When I finally sat down to watch the show yesterday, I reacted to it differently than I thought I would.
The story is truly miraculous, and the family is an amazing example of how to stay strong through impossibly difficult circumstances.  The part that struck me though, was the moment when Oprah revealed the triplets for the first time, as a "miraculous twist of fate".  The audience erupted in whoops and hollers, claps and cheers...the same reaction I would have had three months ago.

It was the look on the parent's faces that I identify with now.  They looked sad.  They looked like parents who, although thrilled and blessed to have these three babies, were forever going to miss the children they lost.  For them, it appeared that the cheers of the audience were bittersweet.

I understand that feeling.  I pray every day for more children, it is without a doubt what I want more than anything on this earth.  But I know that no matter how many sons and daughters I am lucky enough to have, there will be an element of sadness along with my joy.  Rip was a miracle, and the children I pray for every day will be miracles too...but they are each their own miracle, and gaining one does not fill the gap of losing the other.

Eleven Eleven

I have always been just a little bit superstitious, especially about numbers.  One of my "lucky" numbers is eleven (mainly because it is the month I was born), and I've always been one of the "those" girls who kisses the clock for good luck if I happen to glance at the time when it reads 11:11.

Because Rip was born via a scheduled c-section, I knew in advance that his birthday would be 11/11 and I was thrilled.  Surely this was a good sign. 

Among the other ways I felt betrayed after he died, it seemed as if even my lucky number turned against me. 

And then it started turning up everywhere.  At first I thought maybe it was like "new car syndrome", you know when you get a new car and then you see that car all over the road when you never noticed it before?  If I looked at a clock, it was 11:11, if I went to the gym the treadmill was stopped at 11:11, if I got change buying lunch...yep, $11.11.

Not long after this phenomenon began, someone told me they believed that when you lose a person you love, that person will "check" on you from time to time.  I believe that those numbers, eleven eleven, are Rip's way of telling me that he is okay.  I've realized that I still have my lucky number, it just means a lot more now.   Rip's birthday was a lucky day, probably the best I have ever had, regardless of everything that happened before or after. 

This may all seem a little far fetched...and it is.  But I think if you will look at this, the first post I wrote after we lost Rip, the time stamp gives me a little more credibility.

I've started kissing the clock at 11:11 again, not for luck, but as a thank you.

Apropos Rainbow

Before I start with this story, I have to give it a disclaimer.  I am writing this blog for myself, so that I can (she says hopefully) look back at this time and see how far I have come next year.  Along the way, I've heard from and about various people who have had a loss and who read this blog.  I know I've tried to find everything ever written by someone who has lost a child in some attempt to find my way.  That said, I write a lot about the blessings I've found even through a terrible time... but most of this is really hard.  Most of the time the miracles are so miraculous because the rest of life while grieving is sad and EXHAUSTING.  I say that because this is not easy, and it is not supposed to be easy...I need to be honest about that.

This week has been especially hard for some reason, some weeks just are.  This morning I woke up crying, the same thoughts going through my head, the same prayers being said...my two emotions are sadness over Rip and absolute terror that I will not have any more children.  I cried silently in the shower, praying to God for some sign, ANY sign that He was listening (I will say this, even in my worst moments I often think about how dramatic grief is...a lot of falling to my knees and crying out to God...sometimes I picture him up in heaven rolling his eyes, like oh geez, here SHE comes again). 

Here's where the good part comes in.  For whatever reason I decided to turn on the computer, something I never do in the mornings.  After that I decided to check my facebook, another odd thing to do when you are crying so hard you can hardly see straight.  There I found that my mom had sent me a picture of a rainbow and underneath it she wrote "You will be here soon!".

Now, I know she sent me that picture because it was taken on an island that Parke and I will be visiting this month.  I know she sent me that picture to remind me of good times to come.  What she did not know is that a baby that comes after the loss of a pregnancy or newborn is called a "rainbow baby", because that baby is the rainbow after the storm.  I prayed to God to give me a sign that I would have more children, opened my computer and found a picture of a rainbow saying "you will be here soon."

So I make a choice.  I can choose to be cynical and believe that God does not have his hands in things like computers and facebook and pictures.  Or I can choose to look for the rainbow.

I'm Fine

"I'm fine".  The first thing someone asks you when they see you, "How are you?" To which you are supposed to respond "I'm fine". 

I've always been a person who likes to make sure that everyone around me feels comfortable.  I don't want to upset anyone, ruffle any feathers.  So when someone asks me how I am these days, I say "I'm fine".

And I am fine. I am fine for someone who feels like their whole world fell apart two months ago.  I am fine for someone who is constantly thinking about their loss.  I am fine for someone who is repeatedly reliving memories that, while necessary, are not always pleasant.  I am fine for someone who has to continually ask hard questions about their faith, and find a way to get through the doubt and the fear to somehow find my way back to hope and trust.

But I know that is not what you want to hear.  The time has come, two months later, when everyone else has moved on.  The time has come where I am expected to carry on conversations that have nothing to do with loss or fear or doubt.

So I do.  And I am fine.  But it is a different kind of fine than I was two months ago.