Recently I was reading a book in which two mothers who had lost children were discussing how they dealt with their grief. One of the women said to the other, "I feel guilty even saying this out loud, but I've gotten to the point, years after my son died, that I can see the ways in which his death has been a blessing." She went on to describe how she and her husband's marriage was tested and, subsequently, strengthened (there's that word again), how she and her extended family were brought closer together in the wake of the tragedy, and how they went on to have another son who later brought joy back into their lives.

I'm not going to pretend I'm that enlightened yet, three weeks after learning we lost our baby-to-be. It's hard to see any possible blessings that have come from what we certainly feel is our own personal tragedy. What I can see, however, is how truly blessed I already am. I have the most amazing friends and family, who have continuously called me, written, and made damn sure I don't completely fade into oblivion, alone with the rage and bitterness I've certainly felt on and off over the past few weeks.

I wish I could sit here tonight and tell you that you won't see any more posts here in which I come across as a very angry person. I cannot guarantee that I won't still have my angry and bitter moments as I continue to work through this, make sense of this.

But today, I have mostly felt like...things will be okay. I've been able to smile and and laugh and feel genuinely happy for friends' good news. I've been able to actually concentrate on, and make good progress at, work today, even working through a mini-crisis without it feeling too completely overwhelming for me to handle (which has certainly been the case in days not so long past). I've seen some of that intangible thing called hope hovering out there on the edge of the horizon...not quite within grasp, but with the promise of someday, perhaps soon, being reachable.

A couple of friends have talked candidly about hope with me in the past few weeks. One said, "If there's one thing I do know, it's that grieving takes time before it turns to hope." I appreciated that thought so much. It made me feel as if I'm not a horrible person for lashing out to whomever happens to stumble upon my dark thoughts, written at night when I can't sleep, with the knowledge I wouldn't sleep until I ranted to "someone" (albeit no one in particular) instead of the pages of a journal never to be read by anyone. I guess sometimes you just want to feel as if your feelings have been acknowledged. Listened to, if not agreed with or understood. That they're valid, simply because they were authentic at the time you experienced them...even if they're not the preferred feelings, the ones that people are comfortable with. For me, I think the only way to come out the other end, where that hope patiently waits, is to make my way through the full spectrum of thoughts--good and bad.

Another said, through her empathetic tears, "Just promise me, no matter how hard it is, that you'll never lose hope."  I will promise her that, I will. No matter how angry or bitter I feel, as I continue to work my way through the cycles of grief, I know that I won't shut out hope. I know how very badly I want to be a mother to a child (or children). It is something that is so inherent to the person I am, that there is no way I can let go of the dream, no matter the obstacles we encounter along the way.

Yet another friend told me about a statement she read, which was, "God isn't punishing you, you just haven't gotten your reward yet." The more I think about it, the more it speaks to me. It's not that I really feel that God is punishing me with the loss of the baby, I don't think of God being spiteful that way. But I feel comfort in knowing that, as I see others around me receiving their well-deserved rewards, it does not mean that we won't someday get ours. That, right there, is something to hope for.

-Em