365 days-

my angels,

I had a good cry yesterday... Actually, I've been crying every day for the past week. Yesterday, it was six months since I lost you; A. And today is also a big day for me. As my friend over at Sweeping Up the Broken Pieces stated a couple of weeks ago: the worst year of my life is officially over. Exactly one year ago, I found out that the first one of you had passed. I have struggled to find the perfect choice of words to describe how devastated I was/am. There are none. There are no words that could describe how I felt then or how I feel now. I'd lie if I say it hasn't gotten better. But the truth is, no matter how much time passes, I'll never be who I was before losing you.

There is this one feeling that is constant: guilt. I feel guilty. For not doing something more, for not noticing, for not taking any action, for the actions I’ve taken… I know you would not want me to feel guilty, and that the choices I’ve made were the best for you, your dad, and I. But everything comes back to this feeling… and I’ve begun to accept that it might just never go away.

This year was the most painful and most challenging year of my life. Some days it feels as if the year has flown by. Other days I struggle with how slow it’s going. I guess it depends on how I’m feeling. Every day by is a day I am not spending with you. It’s a day to remember you and think about you, even when I feel no one else is doing so. Your short lives inspire me and give me the necessary strength to keep going. I’m doing this for you. I promise to make you proud.

Loss has made me a stronger person, true. I’ve found the strength I never knew I had to face every obstacle life threw at me during the last year. I’ve made decisions I never thought I’d have to make. But it has also made me a sad, bitter, pessimistic, and plain boring person. I whine, I am envious of other women/families, and I compare my life to theirs. This is the worst part of loss… The one no one talks about. The one where one has to look in the mirror only to find a stranger staring back. I’ve changed so much I no longer recognize myself. 

I am ashamed of the person I’ve become and of the feelings I’ve grown. I often think about what you might think of me when you see me this way. Do you understand how I feel? Do you understand my choices? Do you forgive me? Are you ashamed of me too?

I'm sorry you’re not here with me today. I am sorry A isn't here because of a choice I made. I am sorry I let you down sometimes. I am sorry some days I'm just not strong enough.

I promised a couple of months ago to speak your name and live in your light… although talking about you hurts as much as the first day. I promise I'm doing my best.

I love you.

'what ifs' I have never made public-

With the anniversary of my first loss coming up, certain what ifs and other questions have managed to not leave my mind. 

What if something goes wrong when we try again?

What if “the worst” has not happened yet?

What if my “bad luck” never leaves me?

What if I’m simply not strong enough?

What if something happens and it hurts as much as both my losses put together? Will I be able to handle this much pain all over again? How much pain is enough?

It seems as if I’m only OK when I choose not to talk or think about it. 

It seems as if everyone else though thinks I’m OK. 

It seems everyone wants me to move on, yet they have never even dared ask how I’m doing. 

It seems no one remembers the dates I have so present every day.

A year ago today I found out I was expecting baby #1. I was waiting for my niece to be born, so I chose to keep it a secret. Our whole family had been expecting baby M for such a long time; I did not want to take away their moment.

I called my doctor back home, and he said to come in as soon as I returned. A week later M was born, and a couple of days after that I flew back home, had my blood drawn and went in for an ultrasound. I remember the baby measuring a little behind. We could not hear a heartbeat, and although math has never been my forte, I knew I should have been able to hear it already. My progesterone levels were low, so I was put on progesterone shots right away. A week later, I went in for the ultrasound where we found out our baby had passed. 

What if I had gone to the doctor as soon as I found out I was pregnant? What if I had told my family right then and there? Would I have been put on progesterone shots then? Would I have had a three-month-old baby today in my arms? Perhaps I would have never gone through my second loss... Perhaps I would have never known all this pain and bitterness... My two losses have left me with nothing but guilt.

With my niece’s birthday coming up next week, I can’t help to be sad. So far, March has been the worst month for me. I’ve cried my eyes out. I’ve been crying myself to sleep, and I wake up only to continue crying. Even though she is the personification of hope herself, and I could not be happier to haver her in my life, her birthday is also a reminder of how much I’ve lost this past year. 

What if this pain is all I'll ever get from trying to have a baby?

five months-

You never let me down. 

what not talking about it really means...

It doesn't mean I'm over it. Or that I don't play every single detail in my mind over and over again. 

Every time I write about it, my heart shrinks a size. 

It doesn't mean I'm OK. 

It doesn't mean I'm happy. It doesn't mean I'm better. 

It means I've learned to live with my pain. 

It means I've decided not to share my pain in order to avoid others feeling sorry for me. 

It means I've decided to keep quiet because I've had a large enough dose of stupid comments. 

It means I've gone over my ways to be over it, and everything gets me back to the same place I started at. 

It means staying in bed on my due date. It means no one at home remembered... Those who did aren't close enough...

It means the pain is more real than ever, yet sometimes I wonder if it was just a bad dream.

It means I'm aware of how hard I'm trying to be nowhere close to where I am, yet I'm still here. 

It means two days from now, it will be five months since we said goodbye. 

It means you would have been 2 weeks old. 

It means having so much to do in order to help my brain stop thinking about it. 

It means being sorry for my actions, but not necessarily regretting them. 

It means I'm overwhelmed with so many pregnancy announcements and deliveries. It means I'll never be that naïve again. 

It means my husband does not understand my pain. I've made peace with the fact that he never will. 

It means finding excuses every month to postpone trying again. 

It means I'm still standing despite life's constant efforts to bring me down. Or maybe just half of me is. 

nothing but heartache-

Four months have passed and I still toggle back and forth from really bad days and not-so-good days. I've kept myself busy enough to not overthink, but once I lie down to sleep, it's like I'm projecting onto the ceiling my whole story. I watch it quietly as my husband sleeps. Sometimes I cry, other times I just watch. I can't believe it's been a year since we got pregnant the first time. Between births, pregnancy announcements, and baby showers, I congratulate myself for being so "brave" and "strong". For waking up every morning and getting out of bed. This thought only lasts seconds. My choice didn't feel brave or strong four months ago. It still doesn't. I don't think it ever will.

A week from my due date, all I feel is heartache. Seven days from today I should have had a healthy baby boy. All I have left is a broken heart and a whole lot of pain. 

do you have children?

I started the Ph.D. program on Educational Leadership this week. 

I'm the youngest on the program, and people often ask if that's a wedding band on my finger. I nod awkwardly. Who cares if I married young?

The next question is obvious. "Do you have children?" I smile politely, and answer: "no." I see the relief on their faces and my heart breaks. 

I'd like to scream at the top of my lungs that I do. That they are not with me, but they existed. That I am a mother of angels. I'm not there yet. 

I'd like to be able to talk about them without breaking down. I'd like to talk about my children... Just like everyone else gets to talk about theirs. 

I'd like to complain about not being able to sleep in on Saturdays, because my children are so loud I'm up at 6. I'd like to come home exhausted from the program and help them with their homework. I'd like for them to call me while I'm at school. These are privileges parents often take for granted. Oh how I wish to share my heartache. 

Instead, I sit there and listen to others tell me I'm too young to think about children, that I should "live my life" and "have fun" with my husband before we even think about having children. I stare. My mind wonders off. I try to keep up with the lecture. 

While Dr. Archer discusses Northouse's views on Leadership, I can hear my screams asking A to forgive me. I'm back at the hospital and I can see my husband's face as he looks at A for the first time. I see everyone panic as they bring him to me, afraid of my reaction. Who was it that brought him to me? I can't seem to remember that. How did I get there? 

I'm scared. I hold him, but I'm afraid he might break. I'm afraid I might break him, as if I had not done enough already. I'm afraid to touch him. 

I think about my dissertation. Four years from now, I see myself typing my dedication: 

"To my angels. There is no greater truth: I will forever wonder who you would have been."

please be kind.

I thought 2015 would be better; a clean slate... It's not. It's just 5 weeks shy of my due date. I thought writing about my three different 30-day challenges would help. Now I don't even know why I'm writing. The only reason I'll be completing them is because I've been through worse than to run for 30 days. I feel like sleeping in forever.... Or maybe until 2016 at least. I wanted to come home from the States and get back to my routine and now I don't even know how or if I'll get out of bed to go to work.

2015, please be kind to me.