two months without you

Today marks two months without you. It feels as if it were yesterday that I was choosing colors for your nursery... 

All I have today are pictures. Pictures I constantly find myself reviewing and zooming into, trying to memorize everything I have left of you.

More often than not, I have to remind myself that men do not grieve like women do. I feel so lonely... Not even my husband understands. It's not like I talk about my feelings much, but when I do, he just doesn't get it. We have such different outlooks on the subject. 

This week has been the hardest so far. I'd wake up to workout, and then go back to bed for most of the day or stayed in PJs on the couch. I only made it to work once. Sleeping is the only thing I don't get tired of. I feel like I could do it forever. I haven't felt like doing much ever since I picked up the ashes. My shrink says I should take it slow and pamper myself.

Trying to get my life back on track, I started a 4 week meditation program on Wednesdays last week. I want to be better.

I've started running. I think if I train hard enough, I'll be able to run a half marathon next year... (funny thing about goals is the higher you reach the cooler they sound, I have yet to run a 5K without dying). I might enroll now that I'm motivated. Then I think... "What if I get pregnant? I will end up losing the money."

I hate that this year revolved around the sole thought of getting pregnant, being pregnant, or staying pregnant. I don't want to continue living around my desire to have a baby. I want to live fully, even if I don't get to have a living baby. 

I ask myself... Will I be able to do so? Will I live fully with empty arms?

what my thanksgiving looked like-

I started a list about the things I'm grateful for. And around number 3 I stopped. I do not feel grateful. My heart is shattered. I lost two babies. 

I was forced to go to dinner at my brother in law's. His wife just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl (my first due date was exactly one week after hers). And then her sister in law is pregnant and my due date and hers were about two weeks apart. Ever since I got there, I felt my tears would overflow. 

No one asked me how I was doing. People I had not seen in a while sat next to me and talked about babies and future babies and counted how many boys and girls the family has. No one talked about my babies, of course. To them, they did not exist. 

My brother in law's wife complained about the pain of pumping and about all the milk she's producing. That's when I got up and went to my niece's room. 

We spent the night watching Tangled. I didn't even make it to the dinner table. I didn't even excuse myself. And I really don't care. 

Overall, we had a pretty good time. Even if it was just the two of us. It was a perfect Thanksgiving for us. 

I cried the whole ride home. 

worth reading.

Nothing to add. 

http://stillstandingmag.com/2013/11/grateful-grieving/

8 weeks of heartache.

Eight weeks have gone by and I feel nothing but emptiness. I miss you every day a little bit more, and my heart feels heavier every second that goes by. Yet it's smaller. It's been broken so many times and I've lost so many pieces, there's not a single thing on Earth able to mend it back together. Everything I do reminds me of you. Every child at school is a picture of what I have lost and will never get back. I've become more cynical (if that's even possible), and I've become more afraid. Afraid of death, of continuing to lose, of fighting these eternally long battles all by myself. I've become more anxious, more depressed, more alone. I have accepted that this pain will never leave me. And a part of me doesn't want it to go. Pain is all I have to remember you, the only existing bridge between you and me. I have begun to regret. I regret not holding you longer, not taking more pictures, not having brought a piece of you back with me. I regret not telling you enough how sorry I am. I regret not reading to you as much as I would have liked. I really did try my best to make your last moments here on Earth more comfortable, but I keep imagining the pain I put you through... I feel it myself. I hate myself for it. I hate that you had to suffer. I hate that I had to choose to let you die. I hate my body and I hate what's become of me. I can't think. I can't work. I can't be myself. I just want to go to sleep and wake up a million years from now. It's not always like this. I'm not always like this. There are days less painful than today. There are days when I can't wait to be pregnant again. There are others, like today, that I don't want other babies. I want you. I don't bother telling anyone how I feel, I'd rather not listen to any more "encouraging" talks. No one cares to ask how I feel either. Maybe they're afraid of my cynicism. But I don't want to be told I'm young and have time. I don't want time if it's not with you. You represent the happiest and darkest days of my life. I am grateful to have been chosen as your mom, even if it hurts this much. As long as I'm living, my babies you'll be...

what hope looks like

Four years ago, I started dating my now husband. One of the things I loved and still love most about him is his family. I quickly became friends with his mother and sister, who in no time became a second mom to me and the sister I never had. 

Since then, I witnessed my sister's struggles with infertility. I suffered every one of her losses as my own. Throughout the years, we lost everything but hope. We had nothing to hold on to or look forward to, as every attempt on having *living* children had failed. Then in 2013, after having lost two sets of twins (the first set at 14 and 17 weeks, the second at 21.5 weeks), the surrogacy journey started. In March 2014, my favorite girl in the world was born. Sure, her cute cheeks and long lashes help, but she's my all-time favorite mostly because of what she represents. 

She's the definition of hope and perseverance. She's the perfect rainbow after a hell of a storm. 

Her sole presence encourages me to keep on, because someday I too might have a rainbow in my arms. 

wordless wednesday

only for a moment, and that moment's gone.

all that's left of me...