Saturday, February 15, 2014

A week closer

I've done a lot of grieving since early December. The biggest thing that I've done is worked up the courage to go to a counselor.  This has helped me tremendously.  So, for the time during the months of December, January, and the first half of February, I did a lot of grieving, not writing.

I had a hard December.  And through it, I also had the best women in the world lifting me up with encouragement, hugs, love, listening ears, and food.  Yes, food. :) My husband and I didn't have to cook a single meal for about 2 months after Jaxon died. I also had a Hope box sent to my by a stranger who also knows what this grief looks and feels like.  Many cards and visits.  Oh I cherished those visits.  This my friends, is what the hands and feet of God look like.  But at the same time, by December, I was back at work and the family had gone home.  It was good to get out of the apartment and back into the real world, but at the same time, I just wanted to come home and be in the arms of my husband. And oh, the Christmas music.  I love Christmas music, but it made my heart hurt.  I was looking forward to taking Jaxon out to Christmas shop.  I was looking forward to having him with my mom and I as we looked at Christmas lights, decorated the tree, took pictures of him and posted them to facebook.  John-Michael and I were going to send out Christmas cards with Jaxon's picture on them.  He was going to be dressed in nothing but a christmas tie… an absolutely adorable picture I saw on Pinterest that I was going to mimic. I felt so empty not being able to take that picture and we didn't send any christmas cards.  My arms were supposed to be holding my baby and instead they were empty.  My mom was here again, and this was the visit she had planned literally the very week we found out we were pregnant.  She was beyond excited to spend this time with Jaxon.  Her first grandbaby!  Facebook was bursting with pictures of babies and their first christmases.  Absolute emptiness in my heart.  We went to the christmas eve service and all I wanted to do was cry.  Christmas eve by far was my hardest day in December. I could not get out of that sad, dark, lonely valley.

January was stale.  I remember telling my husband John-Michael, "I am just waiting.  Waiting to move forward. Waiting for February 13th so we can start trying to have another baby."  By the way, I could not have gotten a better man and husband than John-Michael.  I remember feeling so bad for him when I heard the words, "I'm so sorry, but there is no heartbeat."  I didn't even register the pain for myself, I didn't cry for seven hours! (This, I now believe, was my brain protecting itself from coming to terms with what my intuition had been trying to tell my soul for a while.  But more on that later…) But my heart broke for him.  I felt so bad for him. How does that even make any sense?!? I came across a quote yesterday that described this feeling very well and kind of made it make sense. Kind of.  It goes like this…
"The saddest kind of sad is when your tears can't even drop and you feel nothing.  It's like the world has just ended.  You don't cry.  You don't hear.  You don't see.  You stay.  For a second, the heart dies."
I guess it kind of makes sense.  But instead of my heart dying for a second, my heart broke for my husband.  When I was pregnant with Jaxon, I would say "ugh, I've never wanted time to move by so quickly in my life!" I wanted to meet my boy, I wanted to hold him so bad! Ha. Yea, I had no idea how drastically the meaning of that statement would intensify on November 13th. I think I said "ugh, I've never wanted time to move by so quickly in my life" every. single. day. of January.

Earlier, I said I started seeing a counselor.  On January 7th, I went to see Kate for the first time. Looking back on it now, I would say this day was the real beginning of climbing out of my valley. When I say "climbing out of my valley" what I really mean is climbing up a feet or two and then falling back down a foot or two.  Climbing up another two or three feet, and then falling down a foot or two again.  And some days I fall three more feet before climbing up a foot.  Here's another visual that I've found a little more helpful when explaining grief...  They say grief comes in waves.  Sometimes they are small waves, and you can ride these waves without much effort until they pass.  But, then, sometimes they are not just waves.  They are tsunamis.  And the only thing that keeps you from being blown away is that anchor I talked about in my last post.  Well, Kate reminded me of that anchor.  I had it the whole time, (Jesus never takes away the anchor) but I was forgetting to use it. And you know what?? It was my anchor that led me to Kate.  Crazy huh?!? :)  

And oh yes, I still count the weeks.  It has been 13 weeks since I said hello and goodbye to my boy.  My Tuesday nights are still sad, but my Wednesdays bring me a week closer to the day I will see my Jaxon again.  And they bring me a week closer to the day I say hello to Jaxon's sibling.

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