On Not Writing.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Kaila...why don't you write?

I stopped writing, really writing, almost 3 years ago. 

Sometimes I share my old posts. Sometimes I just read them on my own, so glad I put words to my feelings at the time. 

Sometimes they remind me that the feelings haven't gone away.

Last night as I put the kids to bed, Edward said, Mom, I know what I want for Christmas.

 What's that, buddy?

He paused for a moment. I want a wittle brudder.

This isn't the first time he's asked. It likely won't be the last. We're honest with Mira and Edward that we can't have any more kids; and to try would risk my life. There's a bit of confusion just because of their ages, but they're getting to the point where it's really starting to settle in.

Mom, can we go get a baby? Like, adopt? 

We've walked this thought-road as well, weighing our options.

We've weighed every. single. option. 

We've considered trying again, rolling the dice and hoping we don't hit that 1 in 4 chance of our infant dying at birth. 

We've considered adopting an embryo.

We've considered a sperm donor.

We've considered adoption.

We've considered surrogacy.

If you think we haven't thought of it because we don't want it, you'd be absolutely wrong.

If you think any of these options are easy, simple, or cheap then you've either not walked through it, or you're blind to the struggles of those who've had no choice but to weigh these. You live in a place that I lived for a very short while before hearing the news our first boy would not come home with us.

Every. Single. Pregnancy. We knew the risk was death. Sam was our first. And he died. 

And I'll be darned if I don't give our family credit for facing that risk THREE TIMES AFTER we brought home our first infant in an urn.

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You have questions? I'm an open book. I will be honest about the things our family has no choice but to talk about. 

And I will be patient with those who take the time to ask. I love the questions. I love to share.

I have just one request (and if you don't do it with me, consider it when you speak to other grief-stricken souls).

Please. NEVER start a question with, Why don't you just...(adopt, foster, try again...)?

When a question starts that way, I wince. It's that one word. Just.

As if it were so easy. 

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I haven't written in quite awhile.

Because often when I do, I'm irritated. 

Maybe that's part of the process, but I don't like the feelings or my tone.

To deny this irritability would be inauthentic.

To say I'm not still sad, annoyed, or sometimes even angry would be a lie. 

To pretend would be a courtesy for the audience who likes things simple, neat, tied with a pretty ribbon and handed back to them to digest in a comfortable way.

I will not use my words to comfort this audience. 

These hard words are for the ones who get it. Who live it. Or who walk, truly walk, with those of us who do. 

And they are truth.

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Why don't you write?

I'm always writing. In my head. I narrate my day; write entire paragraphs in my mind. Reword and revise the things I want to say to the world. It's hard to describe the way I see words. The way I order them. The way my brain looks for synonyms as I speak so I don't repeat one word too often. I admire other wordsmiths. I treasure when Jamey works hard to say something that might not come naturally for him, but he knows they're how I feel loved. If you ever want to show me how much you care- write something to me. It doesn't have to be fancy. I just love words and I love the people who take the time to use them. 

Why don't you write?

I haven't had time to feel my feelings for a long while now. I don't even really have the time today. I don't like the disjointed thoughts as they come out. First loss, then kids, then back to why I don't write. It all makes sense to me and when I hit publish...I just hope it reaches those who find it useful. Maybe it won't reach anyone; would it really be so bad if this was limited to my own therapy? 

Sometimes I worry I've lost my ability. That writing was only a thing I could do when I was in the middle of death. Sitting in a puddle of loss, with no outlet other than a blank screen and a keyboard. 

And sometimes I think my life is no longer 'interesting'. That my family is caught up in the same rhythm many families are- the sports, the lessons, the school, even the PTA. It all looks normal. It all feels typical.

And then I lay in bed with the kids, answering their questions as to why mommy can't have any more babies or she could die. And I hear Mira's voice telling me she hopes that when she grows up not many of her kids will die.

I realized last night that Mira thinks dead babies are common. 

And her hope is that most of hers get to come home.

I just...sigh. 

Maybe the next thing I write won't be so heavy.