schooled

A year ago today, my water broke overnight and I was admitted directly to labor & delivery.  I was under careful watch for 48 hours and then sent straight home on bed rest.  A week later, I gave birth to Lily at 21 weeks, and 3 short days thereafter, Lucas followed his big sister to heaven.

It's been a hard week.  As much as I've wanted to delay this day from arriving, it showed up anyway, just as every new day does.  Acknowledging it is heart-wrenching, that an entire year has passed without the sounds of crying or cooing or chaos.  What would our daughter Lily look like now, with features that so distinctly mirrored mine?  Or Lucas, with his long, stringy limbs just like his father's?  I miss them terribly, every day.

I do, however, remember what it was like after we laid our babies to rest.  I couldn't comprehend making it the first year, time stretching impossibly before me.  Moving on felt alittle like leaving them behind, and I was terrified.  Yet I'm here now, walking forward from our loss and sharing some of my lessons learned.

Life is precious.  Well, duh, you're probably thinking.  But I've seen firsthand what a fragile balance it is, how one seemingly innocuous moment is made up of circumstance and consequence.  I can't remember how many times these past few months that I've pushed myself to be present with family and friends.  Not just to show up, but to make that time count.  To hug alittle more and awhile longer.  To send a note just because.  To say, "I love you."  To appreciate this miracle that's been given us.

Motherhood is forever.  I may have only been a mother for a couple of hours, but something innately kicked in when I held Lily's lifeless form in my arms.  When I heard Lucas's first cry, watched his little chest expand and contract until his last breath.  I knew then I was forever changed.  And motherhood doesn't stop because our babies are gone.  That first week after I left the hospital, I'd constantly touch my belly and belatedly realize, with a bone-aching sadness, how empty it felt without an answering flutter from the other side.  When my breast milk came in, being able to provide without actually being able to provide was more painful emotionally than it was physically.  And every day since the very last day with our twins has made me want to be a better person, to be wiser and stronger for our babies and hopefully, for our future kids.  It's because I'm no longer the same as I was before; I'm a mother.

Trust in God's plan.  This has been my biggest challenge to date.  As someone who only feels comfortable planning everything to a tee, you can imagine how difficult it's been accepting life's hurdles.  The thing is, as perfect and packaged as I want everything to be, in the end, it's never been my design.  Even when I struggle to understand, I remind myself that I may not be meant to.  That's what faith, in my opinion, is all about -- giving myself up to be completely free knowing God will show me His way.  And I do believe His way is good.

Love is limitless.  The outpouring of love Anthony and I have received is proof of that.  Love knows no bounds.  It's my mom taking care of me physically so I can be strong in body and mind.  It's my dad christening our babies with Chinese names.  It's my in-laws planting flowers by the twins' graves.  It's my sisters crying gut-wrenching, sloppy tears with me.  It's my sis-in-law sending a note because she knows I need it.  The list goes on and on, because love -- powerful, indestructible love -- never ends.

Be honest with yourself.  Healing comes from within.  Anthony and I needed each other to get through this year, but I had to be willing to dig deep and pull myself out of the abyss to truly start anew.  If that meant avoiding baby showers or giving myself a private moment when I really wasn't in the frame of mind to celebrate, that was okay.  It was learning to forgive myself.  It was trying to shake it off.  And it was taking each day one at a time, the good along with the bad.  Because that's all a part of searching for truth.

Empathize.  We're in this human experience together, so why not share it with each other?  I've always subscribed to the notion that saying something is better than nothing.  Silence, I've found, can be deafening.  This was amplified tenfold after my pregnancy loss.  A simple, "I'm thinking of you," would have been enough.  The unfortunate thing is that it's the wordlessness which sticks and hurts the most.  So whenever someone I know is going through a difficult time, I make sure I'm there.  Even when I don't know what to say, I understand that trying to is what matters.

Other takeaways?  It's okay to edit as I go along.  And despite the hardships and challenges that inevitably turn up, there are always pure, unadulterated glimpses of joy and contentment that shine through.  Do those instances make up for what we've lost?  No.  Do they make our struggles worthwhile?  Probably.  Do they show us life can be indescribably beautiful?  Definitely.