Sunday, December 1, 2013

Stream of Consciousness on December 1

My grief feels tired these days.  Like saying "I miss Eliza," is a whiny complaint instead of a cry of agony from my heart.

Of course I miss her.

Of course that doesn't change things.

Of course life goes on.

Of course things get easier.

Of course.  These things happen as a matter of course.  Resistance is pointless.  What's the word?  Futile.

Which leaves acceptance?

But I don't want to accept it.  I don't want to accept a reality in which babies die.

That's not true.  I know babies die.  Terrible things happen all the time and everywhere.  I know life has to go on in spite of this.

More truthful:

I don't want to accept a reality in which my baby dies.  I want to be kind and sympathetic to other poor souls.  I want to offer gifts and baked goods and sympathetic notes and a thoughtful card dropped in the mail and feel like I am putting balm on someone else's wound.  Meanwhile, I would count my own blessings and hug both my girls tight and marvel at my good fortune in a world where so many people are lost and hurting.

I miss her and the holidays are hard and none of this is new and my grief is old and tired and boring and I am so sick of it and it won't leave me the hell alone.  It's whatever a relationship is that isn't parasitic but is mutually beneficial (maybe mutually beneficial is the phrase?) because the truth is that grief won't let me go but I won't let it go because I don't want to let her go and I don't know how to love her without missing her and so the holidays have to hurt and I have to dread December because all it has ever meant since she was born is a life without her in it.

Of course I miss her.  It's only been three years since she was here--wiggling and kicking and squirming inside me.  It's only been thirty-six short months since we read her stories and told her we loved her and talked about all the plans we had for her.

I'm so tired of missing her.  It's been three whole years, thirty-six long months, and I have to just keep missing her forever and a life sentence of grief is too hard to contemplate and I just want to get over it already because how can someone bear to feel this sad for this long.  It's tedious is what it is.  The same thing over and over and over.  I miss her I miss her I miss her.

I can't let it go.  I can't let her go.

But I couldn't hold on to her either. I just want her back.

That damn song.  "All I want for Christmas is you."  Oh, Mariah Carey, you have no idea.

All I want for Christmas is her.  Last year and the year before and the terrible, terrible year before that.  And next year and the year after and every other year forever and ever.


  1. Hugs to you honey, hugs to you!

    (Not blogging any more, but still reading. xo)

  2. Bug hugs. I can only imagine how it will always be hard. I feel like the fall will be hard for me. Halloween will never be the same.

  3. What you said about baking goods, sending a card, putting balm on someone else's wound...I too wish I could do that for others. Even with my own loss, and my own broken heart...I wish I had the capacity for these things. But year 2 is kicking my ass for the holidays. And I feel my reaching out is futile.

    I know you love her. I know how the grief feels tired and old. And worn out. And the same. But what else is there to do, to feel, when they're loved and missed so damn much it could kill me. ..?

    Holding you close in these days to come. You and Eliza. With so much love.

  4. Lots of extra prayers for you guys this week! XOXO

  5. Maybe symbiotic is the word? Big hugs to you. Of course you love & miss her. Abiding with you.

  6. Thinking of you and we'll be standing with you this Friday lighting our candle for Eliza and C and not in our arms. Loves. ~M

  7. I'm virtually nodding along with you. My hope for you is that the ache gets a little less day by day. I hate Decembers too....

  8. I'm right there with you, same grief timeline, hating December yet wanting to embrace it for my living children, wanting to hold on and let go of the pain at the same time. A life sentence of grief does indeed overwhelm. Yes to all of this. I haven't checked in with blogland in a very long time, and I rarely blog anymore (my grief, like yours, seems so tired), but it's refreshing to read your words being on the same timeline. Hugs mama. ~Lindsay

  9. I'm so sorry she isn't here. Every day without them is hard but the anniversaries pack an extra punch. Sending much love.

  10. I know it is SO NOT WORTH IT to have endured this to be salvation to a total stranger, but that is honestly what you've been to me for 3 short months (this Friday). I'm so sorry for you and so grateful for you.

  11. Blegh.

    You know where my brain is at with December and these days. And holidays.

    I want to celebrate and be the balm and send flowers to OTHERS and all that, too.

    I'm tired of this grief and having to feel sad, but I want to as well. To remember him. To honor him.

    December, you asshole.

  12. Exactly this. I nodded to every single word you just wrote...Mine's just a bit shorter timeframe...

    I hate this life-sentence. And yet I don't ever want to let it go.

  13. I know we grieve because we love. But sometimes that doesn't make it any easier. Sometimes that's why it's so hard.

    Wishing your little girl was here. As such - a little girl. Forever missing her with you

  14. I never feel any right to comment on posts like this.. I'm that moron sending a thoughtful card and having no actual clue as to what you're (all) going through. But I am sorry you're going through it, and I so very much wish Eliza was here in your arms where she belongs.

  15. December is balls, plain and simple.

    I hate Mariah Carey and her cheery Christmas songs.

    The carol that always gets me is Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas… Specifically, "through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow".

    Because seriously, I hate this version of life where fate didn't allow. I hate that 36 months ago I too was anticipating his arrival and our time together, with no idea that we wouldn't keep him. That perhaps is the cruelest part of the holidays. The rubbing my belly, knowing for sure he would be here for 2011. Didn't realize he would be gone, too.

    ba humbug indeed

  16. Sending love. Feeling with you. Remembering little Eliza this month.