It’s been said that a picture is worth a thousand words but I say they’re worth so much more. I plugged in my flash drive last night that keeps all my old iPhone photos. This particular flash drive holds a lot of my pregnancy photos that when taken, I didn’t think much about. Now I know better. I’ve always loved capturing moments, even now.
I don’t know if it’s because the sun is shining, because the weather is warm, because buds are blooming, because May is so near, because Mother’s Day is looming, or because soon we’ll celebrate Sam’s first birthday but this week has felt extra hard. I’m pouring life into these pages before I leave to pour my heart onto my yoga mat.
I dedicated my practice yesterday to ‘acceptance’. Something I’ve had a hard time doing since Sam’s birth. In reviewing my photos today I came across some saved text messages between me and my best friend; my Mama. Reading them back it’s as though my body was trying to tell me something; warn me? or maybe accepting our fate together?
The Thursday before he was born I called in ‘tired’ to work. I remember staying in bed crying and having no idea why..
The next night after spending time wrapped up in a blanket, crying on my parents couch, my Mama text me to check in on Sam. We heard his heart beat for the last time while we were laying in the comforts of our bed, in our home, where we belong.
The next day I tried averting my attention to other things. I tried ignoring my body but I just sat in his room, patiently waiting for the slightest move of that big, growing boy.
That night we decided to go to the ER anyway, expecting them to laugh me home as a worried Mama. We took nothing but my favorite book for the wait only to learn there was no heart beat.
I’m still working on accepting that I couldn’t have done anything differently, that I couldn’t have somehow saved Sam. My body spent a weekend trying to tell me something and I didn’t listen. I hear it now though. I go to my mat looking for acceptance of myself. Acceptance of where I am. Acceptance of what I can do. Acceptance of what I cannot do. Acceptance of being able to just ‘be’ present.
I share Sam and my life so openly for acceptance of my grief.
Each day I’ve worked my way back into loving a body that was made to safely harbor a baby until his birth. When your baby is born still, it’s easy to feel immobile. But I move for you, Sam. I will always move for you and your Dad.