December 15, 2008

Today is the first anniversary of Daisy's due date. It's strange how time just keeps moving on, passing you by almost unrecognized. It seems like it was just July and I was spending the day remembering the day she left us. That day is almost easier. It's a tangible day, a tangible grief. It's the day she died and I can grieve for her, for the end of my pregnancy, for the moments I held her little body, for the loss.

The due date is harder for me. It's about what could have been. It's about the 1 year old who isn't running around my house. It's about the little blonde-headed girl who isn't blowing out her candles. It's about what I don't have. It's about the loss of a dream. And every month that passes without me being pregnant seems to make that loss more poignant.

Sometimes I wonder if I've already held my last baby, if I've already passed those precious milestones that turn a baby into a toddler into a preschooler for the last time. Did I treasure them enough? Of course not. I was planning on doing it 4 or 5 more times. Such big plans I had for myself and my family.

How was I to know that God had His own plan for me?

Now there's this bitterness in me that I hate. It boils up when I see a pregnant woman, or someone holding their newborn. It spews forth when my sisters get pregnant or my friends announce their news. It eats me up while I sit in church and listen to all the babies cry. I hate this angry person who can't even be happy for others because they have what I want. Maybe that's what I need to learn from this experience? Compassion in the face of loss.

This is the pain that keeps on giving. This is the wound that won't heal, it's ripped open over and over. It keeps sluggishly bleeding, draining me of hope.

Daisy, I miss you. I hope you're not disappointed in me that I'm handling this trial so badly. I miss you everyday. Our family is not complete without you here. I know we'll all be together someday.