Today is a heavy day.

Three months ago today, when I woke up, my life was still normal. I remember waking up a little bit nervous and waiting for the doctor’s office to open so I could give them a call when they opened. I remember being worried, but assuring myself that everything was probably fine. I still felt invincible. After all, everything had been perfectly normal throughout my entire pregnancy up until that point.

Everything had been perfectly normal. Right up until the moment that it wasn’t.

On that day, three months ago, on July 5, 2016, everything split in two. Time split in two. Our hearts split in two. Our lives split in two.

Somehow we’ve managed to make it three months. Somehow we’re still standing. Carrying the weight of loss and grief. Putting one foot in front of the other. Making something resembling lemonade out of the sourest lemon life has to offer.

Somehow we’ve managed to find moments of laughter. Somehow there are days that I don’t cry. And yet, there are also days when I cry in my car all the way to work.

We’ve started to find some meaning–some shreds of hope.

Yesterday, we were completely overwhelmed by the response to our wristbands for Alexander. We’ve gotten requests from friends (and even friends of friends) all over the country. We’re quickly learning that our initial order of 400 won’t be enough. As my friend SC reminded me last night, “Our little Alexander Scott has made ‘heart prints’ on so, so many!” Alexander’s short life is bringing so much awareness to pregnancy and infant loss.

If I’m being honest, I’d give all that up if it meant I could have Alexander here and alive. In a heartbeat. I would much rather be sleep deprived and cleaning up diaper blowouts than packaging and shipping wristbands with my dead son’s name on them. But that’s not the life I am living. That’s not my story anymore. This is my story. This is Alexander’s story.

Our Molly Bears Fundraiser in memory of Alexander has reached more than 70% of our $900 goal in just two days. Alexander’s legacy is bringing hope and healing to so many parents with empty and aching arms.

Again, if I’m being honest, I’d rather be holding a squirmy almost three month old than waiting for a weighted teddy bear just so I can feel his 5 lb 13 oz weight in my arms once again. I would give anything for this story to be different than what it is.

Some days, like today, are still very heavy. I feel the weight of the 5th. The day we found out Alexander’s heart was no longer beating. The day we had to share the horrible news with family and friends. The day we walked into labor and delivery at the hospital knowing that unlike so many others, we would be leaving without our baby. The day that started out the longest week of our lives as we waited and waited and waited. The day that everything split in two.

This is our reality. There is oh so much to grieve, and yet there are rays of hope emerging from the darkness. There is beauty rising from the ashes. And I am clinging so tightly to that hope and that beauty. Because I refuse to let this grief swallow me whole.

Alexander deserves the best. He deserves my best. He deserves our best.

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2 thoughts on “Heavy.

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