Hello. Again.

With shame, I admit it has been well over a year since I last made an entry here. To say that life has "changed" would be a ridiculous, gross understatement. My three children are growing up far too fast. I can't stop them and each passing day feels like another testament to my own mortality. I am awaiting the final judgement of divorce, thus putting the period at the end of my ten year marriage. I've been reunited with someone from my past and we're navigating our way through the future together. Some things have been a blessing, others a curse. And yet one thing has remained. Pain. This isn't a "woe is me, fuck my life" commentary. This is reality. This is my life. It's better than others. It's worse than others. It is what it is. It's mine. Mine to figure out. Mine to work through. I won't be rushed. I won't be told how to feel or when to feel it.
Alot of parents who have lost a child can still lift each other up when the moment arises or fall safely in the security of knowing there is one other person in this world who might know exactly what you're feeling. Each loss is unique. You can share with other parents who have endured the torture of child loss with the reasonable expectation that they have an idea of what you're going through. You speak a similar language. You know what they're about to say before they say it. Pain crosses barriers. My personal journey has led me to the realization that I no longer share that bond with the father of my children. Our demise has been so bitter that we struggle to speak about our surviving children with any sort of ease. The last time either of us spoke of Lucie in the other's presence was in court. I recounted through tears, carrying her in my body, learning her fate, and holding her as she took her final breath. He turned his chair and faced the wall, unable to even look in my direction. The further I got in the divorce process, the more it became clear that I am not at peace with my daughter's passing. I fought to keep "custody" of my daughter's ashes. I thought I was doing ok. I thought that the fact that I still got up every day and powered through meant I was healing. I didn't let myself fall apart because I have three other little people counting on me. For the most part, I haven't let them down. I try to show them that they are enough. But the hole is still there. The pain still palpable. The bittersweet part in all of this is that with each passing milestone Helena makes, I miss her sister more and more. Helena is an amazing, beautiful child. At 2 years and 9 months, I can already tell she has an old soul. She will grab my face and pull me in, telling me "I love you so much, mommy" and I crumble because I feel her AND her twin as she does it. In that moment, I feel Lucie's presence wash over me. Helena is my most defiant child. She has a will that doesn't seem to be breakable. It's as though she's telling me that she fought to be in this world and there's no way she's going to just lie down and take anything anyone says to her. I feel like she has the spirit of her sister in her as well. She's fighting her way through this world for herself and for her twin as well. This child is a force to be reckoned with. It makes me exceedingly proud and weary at the same time. I have begun to explain to Helena what happened to Lucie. Helena sees her own face in Lucie's photo on the wall. She asks about her. The more I tell her, the more she understands and becomes vulnerable to feeling that loss and the more I feel it as well. It's baby steps for us both.