How Am I Doing?

People have been asking me lately how I'm doing,
Or asking Dave how I'm doing.
Sometimes there is concern that I may be having a hard time moving forward.

I wish I could say my process was linear and clear and defined,
And that I'd be completely done with it and through it all in X number of months.
But it's not really like that.
And you know what?
I'm okay with that.
Really.

I'm comfortable where I am right now,
As comfortable as it's possible to be when your child has just died.
It's been three months, and time just keeps moving along.
But this isn't a journey with a beginning, middle and end.
I'm comfortable allowing myself the space and time I need
To feel the range of emotions that whirl through me each day.

I'm not scared of my grief.
I'm not worried that I will sink deeply into a deep dark pit of depression
That I'll never be able to get myself out.
That's not where I am or where I'm headed.
(It's never really been my way through life's tragedies in the past, either.)
It's not what Tikva wants from me,
And it's not the way to honor her life.

But being here, in and with ALL of my feelings,
Is exactly where I need to be right now.
I'm not in a hurry to "move on" or "go forward"
In a way that will make me skip over this complex journey of healing.
And I'm not forcing myself to stay here because of a loyalty to my daughter
That says I only love her truly if continue to grieve her loss in a particular way.
This is just where I am, how I'm doing.

I still cry at least a little on most days.
Some days I cry a lot.
My tears feel comforting, because when they flow freely,
I feel clearer, lighter, closer to my essential self and to Tikva's spirit.
I still hold each day both the longing for my Tikva as my baby in my arms
And her magical presence as my angel connecting me to all that is.
Each time I see the pictures of Tikva on my blog,
I wish she were still here with me in her beautiful body.
I think, "She's so pretty. So pretty."

When I see a mom with a brand new baby,
I still feel pangs of envy and tears in my eyes,
And wonder if she has been through anything hard to get there,
At the same time watching and trusting that I'll be there again when the time is right,
Remembering that most babies do indeed live and thrive.
And also wishing I were holding Tikva like that in a sling against my body.

I'm not sure yet what it will feel like to hold both sorrow for the loss of my daughter
And anticipation of the arrival of another child.
I'm sitting with the tiny beginnings of that juxtaposition already just thinking about it.
I feel the spirit of the next little one who wants to join us,
And I imagine that spirit and Tikva conspiring together to make it so.
I wonder if it's possible for Tikva's spirit to feel any pangs of sadness that it won't be her,
And when I think of that I keep feeling that she is whispering in the other spirit's ear,

"You are going to love being part of their family,
Because they really know about love..."

I still have moments of disbelief at all that has happened.
I remember how many times since Tikva's 21-week ultrasound
I pleaded with God, "Please don't make me bury my child."
Now it's been three months since I buried my child,
It's hard to believe sometimes that it actually happened that way,
That she never came home.

I still have the line on my belly from Tikva's pregnancy.
I wonder if it will ever go away
Or if it will stay until I get pregnant again,
To mix with the next, as if preparing the way.

Right now I am mindful of not trying too hard to do anything or get anywhere in particular,
Especially if it's something defined by someone other than me.
I can't force this, and most of the time I can't really even define it.
But I am okay here, and I will get through this
Not only intact,
But probably changed in a way I can't even imagine yet.