Brave

Brave. Verb or adjective, I can be brave, or I can brave something. I never considered myself brave. I remember being dropped off at the local mall as a tween and being too shy to ask a stranger for the time, while at the same time fearing that I'd be late meeting whichever parent was supposed to pick me up. My mother would often tell me to "be bold" and just do whatever. More than 20 years later, I realize that she was bold herself, at times, but overall I don't think I'd describe her as brave.

I know I was brave the day my daughter died and for at least 15 months afterward. There was so much to do to get through each day that it required what I considered a more or less obvious act of bravery. I'm not sure though, whether I'd consider myself brave overall. Sometimes, isn't it just easier to sit back and not be brave, in any situation? Like anything else, being strong, being assertive, being brave all become tiring eventually.

I find myself in a position requiring bravery. I promised over a year ago to tell my daughter's story in a situation that might help others. At the time, I was reliving her death in my head every day, multiple times a day, and couldn't imagine not ever doing that. But now, I've managed to turn it off, to not think about it either on accident or wilfully every single day. I've managed somewhat to separate memories of her life from the memories of her death. And I fear that having to talk about it will take me back. A friend of mine told me that telling the story of her trauma was cathartic. She had to do that within a year of the experience. By the time I tell my story, at least 21 months will have passed and I'll be approaching the 2-year anniversary of her death.

Honestly, just writing this and imagining having to tell the story make me anxious, nauseous, and upset. I wish I'd never agreed to do it. It's been so long now, I don't know that catharsis in that context is what I need.

I often remind myself, when facing something difficult, that this is not the hardest thing I've ever had to do nor is it the worst day of my life. In comparison to the day I lost my child, almost nothing can ever compare. I also realize that I am brave every night, when I go to bed knowing that I'll once again wake up and realize she's gone. I am brave every morning when I get out of bed anyway and live my life. I am brave now for (as a follower commented) risking my heart in having another child.

So I can do this, I can be brave for her one more time, and tell her story, answer questions, risk feeling it all again in front of people who may or may not care. Brave. I am brave, I will brave this.

Four steps forward, three back?

First, I want to respond to the last comment from the previous post, about whether I believe I'll see my daughter (or anyone else who's passed on) again someday. I spent days, weeks, and months trying to figure that out, as well as trying to understand why she died in the first place. Did I do something wrong? Did she? Did we do something right? Did God (who and whatever exactly he/she/that is for me) actually intend for me to have this beautiful child in my life for only 2 years and suffer through her horrible passing?

In the end, all I realized was that I don't know the answer. Maybe I'm not spiritually evolved or in touch enough. I do believe there is more to this world than we can know, detect, or prove. But it doesn't matter to me if someone can prove that I will one day be with her again. I wanted to be with her here, for the rest of my life, to see her grow up. It's kind of like not getting to go on a trip to the beach one summer, and then in the winter you go to the mountains. It's nice, but just not what you had in mind. I suppose the end result is that I am at some sort of peace with at least myself.

I had made some tentative moves back into the groups I had been avoiding for so long. I went to brunch with a group of women, then hosted a park playdate with many of the same women and our children. Now, the women whose children (girls my daughter's age) it pains me the most to see weren't there, but I am proud of myself for finally taking my daughter to a group event. At 20 months, she's too young to really play WITH anyone, but she really enjoyed being there. I found that those two outings were actually refreshing, and I felt energized after spending some time with my friends.

Two of the women I saw passed on several boxes of maternity clothes to me. Which was a relief, because I was oddly dreading going through my leftover maternity stuff. Unfortunately, after going through all their things, I decided I would still need to open my boxes, mostly to look for maternity pajamas. So last night, I opened what turned out to be 2 relatively small boxes. One contained bottoms (all pants, which I won't really need since I'll mostly be big in hot weather) and the other contained tops. Surprisingly, most of the tops were summery, which IS what I'll need.

However, there were no pajamas in either box. Initially I was disappointed, and then upset. I remembered the woman who bought most of my clothes and felt angry, was telling my husband that this woman had taken my things. Which isn't true--I sold them to her willingly, thinking I would never need them again. But it was such a memorable experience. My older daughter was utterly fascinated with this woman, kept chatting with her and even asked me if she was going to stay for dinner (she didn't). I can't help but think that the woman's child must now be over a year old, and my daughter will never be any older than 29 months, 15 days old.

After getting a little upset, I ate dinner. Then I realized there must be another box somewhere. I had a pretty decent collection of maternity workout clothes. I exercise about 6 days a week, even when pregnant, and believe me, comfortable workout clothing is a MUST towards the end of my pregnancy. I had sold that too, in an online auction which ended right around the day my daughter died. In the end, I kept it all. And now I can't find it. And that made me REALLY upset. And this has kind of snowballed into just being upset in general.

I know I'm tired. My in-laws were here last week, and while they're relatively low-maintenance, having extra people around always wears me out. I had a migraine Friday and of course couldn't take anything at all for it. And of course I'm just plain ol' pregnant, so of course I'm exhausted. My defenses are down. But honestly, today I can't stop all the random emotion. I'm angry (at my husband and in-laws, for reasons that I couldn't have come up with a week ago and probably couldn't summon a week from now), I'm upset that I can't find my clothes, I'm perturbed that I never planned a third pregnancy (but will of course love my baby just as I loved his/her sisters.

Oh, and a friend I haven't heard from in many years recently contacted me. She found me on Facebook. Initially, she sent a message telling me my girls (pictured in my profile photo) are beautiful. Then after reading some of the posts on my wall, sent another message apologizing for not realizing my daughter had passed away. I can't explain why, but the whole sequence of events upsets me. I remember receiving a card announcing her daughter's graduation. It arrived just after my daughter died. I felt as though someone was stabbing me in the heart all over again. Yet another thing she would never do.

So tonight, my goal is to rest. Rest my brain, rest my heart, rest my body. That seems to cure all ills, somehow, or at least to help enough that hopefully I can think semi-clearly again.