It's the Little Things: Observations on Grief at 6 Months

The other day I was working on the layout of a book for preteen boys. The boy in the story had just asked a girl to a dance for the first time, and felt anxious about the upcoming date. Eventually the boy went to his dad for advice. The father gave his son tips on how to dance, suggested where to eat, and said Mom would help him pick out a shirt and tie to wear.

I alternately laughed at the boy's nervous thoughts and teared up at the admittedly cheesy story. At 6 months out, this is how my grief looks. My feelings alternate between wistful, sweet remembrance, and deep, aching sadness. I am caught off guard by the little things, new realizations of what I've missed and will be missing out on. I will never help them pick out an outfit for a dance. I will never watch admiringly as their father gives them advice on how to treat a girl. I will never snuggle both of them in my lap for a story. I could go on and on about the things I will not experience. But I try not to stay in that place too long.

At 6 months out I still think of, remember, and miss my boys every single day. Usually several times each day. If they aren't my first thought upon waking, I'll think of them as I shower or pass by the nursery. I think of them when I take a break at work, when I see a bright blue sky, when I feel joy.

The ache of missing Asher & Evan is less often an all-consuming, drowning feeling. More often it's a constant, deep ache. I imagine it's much like having chronic pain or a missing limb. That ache will never go away, but as time goes on I am learning how to live with it. The ache is becoming a part of me, rather than defining me.

I am starting to be able to enjoy babies again. It depends on the day.

I still feel a knot in the pit of my stomach when a friend announces her pregnancy.

We are thinking more seriously about trying again. The fact that I can even consider the idea and look ahead makes me realize how far we've come over the last 6 months.

Sometimes the grief surges up and overtakes me with a fresh wave of pain. These are the times when I go back to their blankets and photos, and just sit and cry. I cry because I'm so, so sorry all their belongings fit in one small box. And I would do anything to have them back. At 6 months, 6 years, or 6 decades, that will never change.

At 6 months out, my happy memories of my pregnancy and Asher & Evan have increased. I am able to smile more often than cry when I see their pictures. Slowly, very slowly, the rawness of grief is becoming secondary to the deep feelings of love.