I put him in the swing outside today…she never did that.
He is beginning to roll…she never did that.
She never crawled, or walked, or talked, or celebrated a birthday.
I am crushed despite the head knowledge that Heaven is so much more than these earthly milestones. Sometimes I can only think with my heart.
The bizarre, flip-side of this is the feeling that it is wrong for Micah to be doing these things. There are times I wish I could just fast-forward, get past his 1st birthday and go from there. I am cherishing him, but continually grieving through it all.
Every now and then I think Micah is a girl. I still long for a baby girl. I fear the Lord will never give me another. Please don’t think I don’t love my little boy. I do. Dearly. He is a dear, sweet blessing to me; a healing balm…not a bandaid, that covers the wound, but a balm that acknowledges the wound is still there.
Melia talks a lot of Emily and compares Micah to her. As I was writing this, she said to him, “When Emily was little, she was just the size of you.” Then, she looked at me and says, “Micah says he doesn’t know who Emily is.” “Then, we must make sure to tell him about her,” I replied. She often acts as if Emmy is still right here with us. It is very precious to me.
It is the beauty of those moments that counteracts the utter horror of others. A few days ago, I put Micah in a purple towel after his bath and when I laid him on the bed I had to quickly get the towel off of him and out of my site. I could not help but see Emily lying there when she was so very tiny as I took pictures of her to document her weight “gain”…but she never did gain.
There are other times when I hear the usual infant noises and find myself sucking air in fear. I panic at the slightest anything that doesn’t sound quite right to me.The panic has spread to my older children who hear my fright when Micah makes a noise I don’t recognize from the car seat. “Is Micah OK?!” I shout. They panic and scramble to check on him. I live in a state of forever telling myself to CALM DOWN.
The worst thing about this “new grief” is the fact that Emmy is beginning to fade. I can no longer “feel” her in my arms. I cannot see her as vividly. I’m beginning to see her in still frames. Just bits and pieces…not whole storylines. I hate that. Yes, it means the memories are less intense, but it feels as though I am losing the only thing I have left…the memories of her. I am caught between not wanting to miss her so much and not wanting to not miss her.
Since the one year anniversary, I’ve grieved less and less on these pages; however, I’ve found that with time grief becomes less about crying and more about remembering and working through the aftermath of your new reality. It’s tough to do that on paper (or keyboard) because it just happens. One moment I am doing dishes, the next I am struggling with a gripping fear. I pray my way through it and eventually find myself on the other side.
It is there that I hug my living children a little tighter, praise the Lord for them and my little Emmy, and ask a special favor that if at all possible could Emily know how much she is loved and missed.