Dancing in the Snow

Sunday, October 09, 2011

I have been feeling like acceptance has been withing my grasp lately.

I have been feeling like maybe I see a light at the end of this tunnel, and it's not a bright light that blinds me. It's a light that welcomes me home.

I have begun sorting through my feelings (constructively).

I have come to terms with some aspects of Beatrix's birth and death (the doctors REALLY couldn't do more than they did, and it is o.k. to feel o.k. about not having a baby who lives her life hooked up to machines that regulate her basic bodily functions.)

I have, I have, I have..... felt fine before. But then it hits me in a wave. And all I do is sit around listening to sad music all day, wishing she were here. Sometimes it's just a "course of the day" type of thing.


But sometimes there's a catalyst.


Last night, my husband confided in me that he has dreamt of Beatrix twice since she died. We lay spooned up in bed. His belly to my back. As he says this, my heart begins hammering in my chest. The blood pounds so loudly in my ears that I am afraid he will hear it. Of course the tears begin to slip slowly down from my eyes. I am sinking in my sorrow.

I haven't dreamt of her once.

I've prayed, I've begged. I've cried, bargained... all of it.

Not so much as a twinkle of a memory.

In my well regulated voice, the voice in tears that I have learned to use well, I ask what she was like in those dreams.

He told me.

I was heartbroken.

I spent the day in a funk. I listened to sad folk music, and moped around the house feeling sorry for myself.

Just once I'd like to see her moving. Just once I'd like to imagine her as something more than the already leaving baby who I held in my arms.

Here I thought I was doing so well. I thought that because I had passed the milestone of acceptance, I would be better about regulating my emotions. I thought I was getting to a place where I would be capable of being honest when I told everyone that I was "o.k."

I bounce around like a pinball. I hit walls and fall down holes. Each morning is the beginning of a new game.

So, I sit and fold clothes, listening to my sad folk music.

One of the CD's I have been listening to lately is Eddie Vedder's "Ukelele Songs". There is a sweet rendition of him singing "You Belong To Me" on it. I plan on using the song for part of the video I will eventually make with all of Beatrix's photos.

Looking online for a video of the song, I find this-




I'm watching it and realizing how appropriate this video is for the feelings which I have been working through, today.

It would seem irreverent to be posting a video of people dancing while making any statement about my Bea.

But as I watched it, I thought it was just absolutely perfect.

Because grieving her is like this- dancing in the snow- trying to make my footsteps land in all of the right places. Trying to do everything well, and at every turn, tripping myself up. Doing everything I can to avoid falling.

But I fall. A lot.

Today, I may exhibit so much depth to my loss. These are the spots where I sink into it- it covers up my feet, and I have a difficult time pulling them out. I'm stuck with my feet buried and the rest of my body attempting to move out of the spot I'm in.

Sometimes, there are moments when I lose my balance, and I need to lean on my husband and children. They will also lean on me when the ground under their feet becomes too slippery. We do this to avoid landing in the cold.

Sometimes, I need to try to stand on my own. Because it's the experience of the other's grief that is threatening to tumble me.

I recognize that my husband's admission tipped the weight of grief a bit to heavily in my direction, and clinging onto him would just make us both fall flat.

Sometimes, I think I'll just be stuck out there with my feet frozen in the cold. Unable to step away from the spot I'm in.

But I watch these people, and I am thinking that maybe one day, like them, I`m going to be capable of laughter as I get up and brush myself off.

This is what keeps me going every day.

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