You tend to think that life is linear.
It is not.
You would tend to think that you mourn and you rejoice on separate planes.
You do not.
So much of it happens simultaneously, meshed together in this thing called living.
I believed that I could not smile or laugh while the deep, dark pit sat inside. I believed I could not move on with my life until I had worked through this thing called grief.
I believe He can turn my mourning into dancing. But just because I dance doesn't mean that I also don't grieve.
I have realized that I will always grieve the loss of Emmerson and Vivienne. I have realized that there will always be a part of my heart that will ache.
I was not ready to take forward steps. I was just starting to feel like I could get out of bed in the morning and look forward to that day. Just that day.
I was not ready to start taking steps that would move me into the future. Steps that would take me, seeminly, further away from them.
And then I had a nosebleed and I cried. My husband saw that I had a nosebleed and we both stopped.
Silence became us once again.
I didn't sleep well that night.
The next morning, while we were both in the bathroom waiting, I cried.
I was so scared.
What does it say?
He starts cleaning up an already clean bathroom.
I can't look. Just tell me.
He hugs me and says yes.
I cry more.
Do you think they are mad at me? Do you think they feel like we betrayed them?
I have been fearful of telling anyone. I have been fearful for two main reasons. What if this baby doesn't survive either? What if people think that this baby "replaces" Emmerson and Vivienne or that I am "over" losing them?
How do you do it? When the hurt causes you to look back at what might have been, how do you look forward with the hope of what might be?
How do you move forward when you just became comfortable with where you were? How do you move forward when so much still sits with the what might have been?
It's feeling like your life had just started to form its new normal and then this new life is formed and I'm still grieving the new lives that never were.
It's hard and it's confusing and it's scary. It's not knowing how to move forward but knowing you need to. Knowing you have to.
It's seeing that there is an after and that scares you because that means there was a before. There was a moment in time that forever stays with you. And that moment can haunt you.
I have not let myself get excited. I have gone to every doctor's appointment expecting bad news. Every one of them. I imagine everything that could go wrong and every illness or disease that this baby could have.
Really, all I want, is a healthy baby. I know a lot of people say that but this is a desire and a dream that comes from my core.
I want a healthy baby and I want to bring this baby home with us.
What if that doesn't happen . . . again?
I was angry for awhile. Angry that I had to move forward. Angry that I had no choice. Angry that I had to balance mourning with something new . . . something good.
I had to actually put Hope into action.
And while I know that Emmerson and Vivienne will always be apart of me and that I will always miss them and ache for them, I also have to live this life and rejoice in it.
I have to trust that what has been given has been given at the most perfect time. And that while I may still mourn, I can also dance.
Aaron and I would like to share that our fourth child, our first son, will be joining our family in October.
And so, amid the tears, we dance!