Label

I've been scratching at this label trying to get it off. To "fix" it. It reads wrong. No matter what I do I can't get it off; It's a part of this container. People have come around here and there to take a crack at it and see if it will budge. It won't.

That label reads Bereaved Mother. 

It won't go away and something in me might fight it until the day I die. Something in you wants to fight it for me sometimes. Some days its easier for you or me to ignore that part. At other times you can't help but walk up and see it.

I was speaking with another Bereaved mom a couple of days ago and my heart so resonated as she said "I want to fix this like its another problem. But you can't do that. It won't be fixed." 

We're not broken, we're a part of a new group of people. People who have one foot on earth and the other holding a crack open in the door to heaven. We have a classification as many groups do. We are The Bereaved ones. I'd liken our group to those of cancer groups or alcoholics anonymous. It's nothing you want to be a part of but once you are, you just are. There's just one difference, ours has no cure this side of eternity. No set formulas, so plans... because you can't get out of this boat.

Last night as I settled into bed exhausted the subject of Mother's Day was just lightly mentioned. Kyle dozed on off and I lay there, eyes wide open, the wound of my heart laying open and fresh again... full of panic. I remembered last mother's day being wheeled around the hospital with no certainty but still a family of 5... This mother's day growing more daunting in my mind than the last. How will I face this? Can we go to church? Will we even try? As much as I want to celebrate, it will be emotional no matter what. And on and on the spiral goes with questions and fears and I'm not even a year into this yet. 

Which lead me then to think YEAR. I'm coming up on it. The big one year mark. Others are making plans for their one year old to eat their cake and make a huge mess. Getting a one year photo shoot. Planning a themed party because they can already tell baby loves curious george so much. And I don't know what we'll do but its just as important to me as it is to them that my sons were born a year ago. But it might not be as important to some. This all makes sense. And the pain of the wound and the pound of my heart are in sync as I lay sleepless another night this year.

And when you see me the next day, my hair is done and I'm functioning fine. Though I dabble in the land of the ones who have passed I am living and breathing and fine. I mean it. FINE. I'm okay. I'm good. I look forward to things, I have started a home business, I have plans and a future. We love the stage Hayley is at, I've been doing this really neat puzzle during my down time, we can't wait for all this snow to melt, we take pictures, we play music all of the time, we do chores and diet and splurge for some junk food and a movie once a week. We fight and complain over things so trivial in a day. We run late and rush. We enjoy church and friends and lead a small group and have games nights.

On the outside and on the inside its okay. It's just the boys are interwoven in a day... in a thing I say or don't say to someone. In what I have to wear now to avoid pressure on a scar. In my parenting choices. In my smile and in my tears. In a squeeze of the hand or exit from a room if things come up that I'm not ready for. In a song and in a goofy dance with Hayley. They're here and I am bereaved and there's no end to this. And I am okay with that. As long as I live, their memory can't die.