Does it ever get any better?

I remember learning something about "stages of grief" at some point in my life. I don't remember when or where but something about denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance seems to sort of float around in my head. Later I learned that this theory of grief actually specifically applies to a terminally ill person, but for some reason it seems to get applied to grievers in other situations. My grief hasn't looked anything like that. There is no set of stairs that I progress up as I pass through successive stages. Instead I have discovered that my grief cycles.

A question I had from the moment I found out I was going to lose my baby was if there was any way I would ever recover. I was fortunate to have a wonderful nurse that had also lost a baby girl many years ago. She listened to my fears and told me about her story. She gave me advice on books to read and all sorts of other support. She was also very, very real. She told me it still hurts (8 years later) and she still misses her every day. I heard this "hurts every day" kind of thing from many others as well. I didn't totally understand. Part of the reason I didn't really get it was because of how I felt in the first few weeks after my loss.

The way I felt for the month after my loss was the biggest surprise for me. I came home, planned a graveside service, said goodbye to my baby and kept on living. In the first weeks I ached for her, I missed being pregnant and I cried, but I felt confused about how I could possibly be doing so well. I felt guilty that I still wanted to do fun things with my kids and my husband and every time I laughed or enjoyed myself I wondered why I wasn't having a harder time. I realize now there were a few reasons for this:

-Shock- it took some time for the grief to really, truly set in
-Peace and comfort from the special spiritual experiences we had when our angel was with us
-Amazing support from family and friends

After about a month I simply fell apart. That is an understatement. I withdrew from people I loved and cared about. I avoided people that I didn't absolutely have to see. I put up a sunshiny fake front to avoid ever talking about what was really going on. I sat in a job interview and stared at the interviewers when they asked me if I was excited about the opportunity. Excited? I couldn't even process what that meant. I'm sure they thought I was the least animated person they had ever met. Everything about surviving got really hard. Going to church was almost to the point of torture. I wanted badly to feel uplifted while I was there, but I was surrounded by people and situations that paralyzed me with heartache. I sat silently sobbing as my sweet little boy wiped my tears and snuggled me. I checked out on the whole mommy business for a while as well. I had no energy to give them. I hated the person I was becoming, but I saw no way out. Thankfully the tender mercies of the Lord shone a light for me. I started to see the world around me again. I started to write my story and share my feelings, just in my own personal journal at that point. I discovered that one hour of uninterrupted time out with my husband had the power to keep my head above the mirky water of grief for a few days. I remembered how daily prayer was like water in the dessert. I found inspiring words in scriptures and other good books. I rediscovered my passion for fitness and the way that a workout is literally an antidepressant for me. In short, I found ways to cope.

Throughout it all a quote from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf (second counselor in the First Presidency of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints) was constantly on my mind. It was especially significant to me because just a few weeks before I lost my baby girl I had written it, along with some other thoughts, on a 3x5 card and taped it to a cabinet in my bathroom. I had no idea what was to come. It is still there, the words very faded but reminding me and giving me comfort daily: "what you see and experience now is not what forever will be. You will not feel loneliness, sorrow, pain, or discouragement forever."

Now I know a little bit better how to answer the question "does it ever get any better?" The short answer is yes, but that is too simple. My grief still cycles in and out of "those days," the ones that feel like somehow time is just passing by me and I am trapped in a fog. The days when I can't understand why I just feel so tired, or I can't seem to do a single thing right no matter how hard I try. On these days I know it's time to stop and give some time to my grief-- let myself wallow in the ache I feel for the baby girl that should be in my arms, look at pictures that make me cry, hold onto my boys a little tighter and a little longer, shut the world out and just remember how her short life has forever changed mine.

I don't think I have enough understanding of this process just 6 months after my loss to give any more insight than this, but I know that I don't want to forget her even though remembering her hurts, and I know that I have more good days than I used to, and most importantly, I know that what I experience now, is not what forever will be!