Wednesday, May 23, 2012

right where i am 2012: three years, five months, one day.

Last year, I launched a project called Right Where I Am where I asked other babylost parents to write about right where they were in their grief. And it also was about how wherever you are, it is right. I asked people to only talk about the present moment in their grief, not where they were yesterday, or tomorrow, but how they were feeling today. I asked each person to title their piece with Right Where I Am: followed by the time since their child or children died. Here is last year's post. One hundred and seventy-nine people wrote about right where they were. It was more than profoundly interesting. It was beautiful, heartbreaking, lovely, powerful. A few people asked me if I was going to do it again this year. I hadn't thought about it being an annual thing, (and maybe it won't be,) but I thought that it would be interesting to do it again this year. It feels good to do an inventory, I think. I found it fascinating to read last year's and compare where I was last year to this year. But also just to think about what grief is like for me now, and what I am wrestling with these days. Also know that if you are new to this community, we want to hear your story too.  I hope you decide to join in. I know I found many amazing blogs last year, and read the majority of the posts. I tried to comment on them all. I know a few people did too (Catherine W. and Sally, I'm looking at you two.) If you do write, post your link in the Mr. Linky below. Feel free to ask questions in the comments, I'll answer them as soon as I get them. 


Last night, I putzed around my house, cleaning things, nibbling on fruit left in a bowl by my children. I turned the television on, sat for a moment, then off it went again. Nothing to watch but a documentary about the ex-Amish that I've already watched. I drew a bath, and poured some patchouli bath salt under the faucet, the pungent smell overwhelming the bathroom. I opened a window so a small breeze blew over me. I moved my seven day votive candle to the rim on the bathtub. I started burning one three weeks ago after I found out our new baby might be dead. I prayed to Mother Mary and lit a candle to her. The baby was dead. I don't blame Mary.  I thought I should give prayer a shot even though everyone already knew the baby was gone. And besides Mary is there for grieving mothers, I hear. This is the third consecutive candle. I remember burning candles all night and all day too after Lucia died. The light felt like a physical presence in the room--warm and alive, changing with the conversation. I listened to the local npr station and stayed in the scalding hot water until it grew cold and I was shivering.

I have only cried a few times since I lost this latest pregnancy. A twelve week miscarriage, but she seems to have died weeks earlier, if she ever lived. Some days, I feel too busy to grieve and be sad. And besides, I think, "This baby isn't Lucia." even though I loathe comparison grieving. But this loss reminds me of Lucia's death, not because it was the same. It was completely different, but it reminds me of how much I wanted someone so little who was destined to die. It reminds me of feeling hope and innocence, but then meeting death. I expected death this time. I hate to say it made it easier, but it did. I survived my daughter's thirty-eight week stillbirth, gave birth, lost my friends, lost my way, refound it, made an incredibly large amount of new babylost friends, found something like a spirituality and compassion. I found myself in the wreckage of my daughter's death. Myself strong and capable, weak and full of fault, slain but resurrected. Myself human. All human. I forgive myself for my humanity now, rather than torturing myself over it.

I opened the cabinet to brush my teeth and my gigantic knock-off G-Force digital watch was in there. It was making colors--green to red to blue. It wasn't doing that before the bath. In fact, it has never done that. The darkness enhanced this beautiful show, like the aurora bourealis over the Crest toothpaste. "Hello, my little love," I said, unafraid, "My Lucia, my little Buddha. Mama misses you." I shut the cabinet door.

I allow her to be part of my life now.

That is something new about year three. I invite Lucia into my world. I let myself see signs of her, to remind myself that we are small in this universe. There is dew and moss and the Grand Canyon. And my baby died. It was a minute blip on the radar of the universe; an atomic bomb in our little family. And so, I can allow her to keep coming to us, in whatever way we want, simply because it is comforting. I tell myself it is okay to search out comfort in our world. To pray to something bigger than me. I disallowed prayer in my early grief, because I felt like a hypocrite asking for God's help when I was suffering. I pray for big things that seem small, like patience and gratitude and humility. Year three has given me permission to believe there is something beyond what I can see in my everyday. That maybe Lucia is around me, and I still don't call her an angel.

See, peace in me used to translate in my brain to peace in her death. I think I integrated her death in such a way now that I understand I can have healing, comfort, hope, love, happiness, serenity and peace and it doesn't mean that I am healed, or comforted from her death. It means that it can still piss me off that she died. I am still sad when I focus on it, but I choose to focus on the joy that she lived at all. It seems miraculous that anyone lives. We are so vulnerable and delicate. Creatures built for death. Lucia taught me that. She taught me about impermanence. I am grateful for the lesson.

I reread my post from last year, and I can see the growth of that peace. Things and people can still upset me. The crazy chatter in my brain still sounds like Ornette Coleman, but it is quieter. It is a constant upkeep to remain in a state of gratitude, but I want that serenity. This miscarriage, not yet even a month old notwithstanding. We grieve this new loss in a new way. The children particularly, but we also feel happy. We seize the happiness when it comes, because we lived with happiness guilt, and it is a pointless, ridiculous guilt. To be happy and grieve is a dichotomy we have become very comfortable with. I think most babylost families live in that place of continual happy-sad.

Honestly, my biggest grief-related issue right now is this space. I fear that I do my readers a disservice. Women and men who find me after they have just lost a child. Who have grieved for a day, two weeks, three months, for six months, for a year, for ten. Perhaps my grief resonates, and it is true grief. But I edit my grief. I massage the words. I clean it up, make an analogy. After a long, winding life, I kill the analogy, then I resurrect it and make a holiday in its name.

I want to tell the people who read here that I write and edit and think and cajole and explicate and outline and rewrite and giggle. But I don't cry much. Does that matter?  Does it matter that I don't cry? Does it matter that I run into the office after dishes, the linen towel still tucked into my jeans, as I wipe my hands dry, and type something about being eviscerated because Lucia died, or write something about the moon, and then go do the dishes again without shedding a tear?

Mired-in-grief is not what three years, five months and one day from Lucia's death looks like for me. Three years isn't all grieving for me. In fact, it isn't grieving at all. Not in that active-not-being-able-to-breathe way. It is not grieving in that I-cannot-live-with-this-knowledge-and-I-cannot-die-because-of-it way. It is not the grieving in that not-being-able-to-function-or-answer-the-phone-or-go-for-a-walk way or the I-can't-get-out-of-bed way. It is the hear-a-pregnant-lady-say-'what's-the-worst-that-can-happen'-and-know grief. Grief became so apart of who I am that it changed almost nothing. Or rather it changed everything about me except me. Or rather, maybe I should say, everything stayed the same but me. I don't know. I feel like a new species--a griefasaurus. I have this life now. It is the only life I can imagine, and it involves Lucia dead. And it isn't a sad life. Bloody fucking hell, I miss her. I miss what our life almost was, and didn't get to be. But I have a beautiful life. A happy family. Joy and running and laughter and Lucia is dead.

Grief now is a moment of my week. In the first year, I'll be honest, a moment without grief felt like a victory. That was the moment I wrote about on my blog, now grief is the moment I write about. But then, because I write a blog about grief, and I write here every week, or twice a week, I write that moment down. I massage it, cajole, edit, kill the analogy, you know, like I said before. And since I write about grief here a few times a week, it seems like I am always grieving, crying, catching my breath, thinking of clever analogies for death and grief and authenticity. That is why I fear it is a disservice to keep writing.

But the truth is I need to write to her, about her. About nature and God and how it intersects with grief. I feel like I am learning so much now. And it is different than learning to live without her. I know how to do that. I wrote about that for two years. I wrote about it because I was learning how to live without my daughter, and how to live without the friends I thought I had, or the safety I thought was afforded me, or that kind, compassionate person I thought I was (apparently, I wasn't that kind or compassionate.) Now it is learning that because she died, the world became more beautiful, because I have hell to compare the world to. I am alive. I have two living children. I don't take any moment of my life for granted. I know the other way.

I wake up and meditate and pray and drink coffee and play and breakfast/lunch/dinner. And I don't grieve in there, not in the way grief was. It was a full-body, all-encompassing physical affliction. It was active. It was debilitating. Keening was a contact sport. Her death is part of the fabric of my life now. It happened. I wove it in, beaded it. It isn't still happening, though it was still happening for the first eighteen months. (Does it help to know there was an end to the active grief? Does it help to know it lasted for 18 months for me? And random days now?) Now, she is just in everything I do, a part of it all, and also, I don't mention her to the earth people. Well, not much. That is one thing that has changed too this year. I don't say that I have three children anymore.

I feel like I have to confess that. That seemed horrifying to me after she died. To deny her to strangers, or even family I haven't seen. But I realize now that it isn't denying her. I just say two, because Lucia isn't an anecdote. She isn't casual conversation. She is my love, not my statement, or my eff you to a society who can't deal with daughter-death. And I still miss her.

:::

Now, it's your turn. Where are you in your grief? Emotionally. Physically. Psychically. Spiritually. You can compare your journey from last year's post (don't forget to link last year's post to this years.) Title your post, "Right Where I Am 2012:(Time since your child's death)" then come back here and link your blog post on the Mr. Linky below. Click other participants and read about right where they are. Comment if you can. Just a thank you for telling me about right where you are. If you don't want to write a full post, why not just comment here and tell me the time since your loss(es) and anything else you want to share. If you do not have a blog and are a regular reader, you can post your essay on this very blog as a guest writer. Send me an email at uberangie(at)gmail(dot)com. Spread the word around the community by linking back to this post, so people can find out what grief is like on all stops on the road. 

117 comments:

  1. Just beautiful, Angie. Thank you. And thank you for starting this project...it will be interesting to do my own Right Where I Am inventory. Big hugs.

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  2. Angie, I liked up and shared as well. Thank you for all that you have given to me and other mothers out there. <3

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  3. Beautiful post. Beautiful family- all of you.

    I will write mine. Promise.

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  4. ah, I needed a reason to get back on my blog and this is it. I've been thinking about it and now is a perfect reason to write. I have loads to say.

    your post was beautiful- thanks for always showing up and leading us on our journey. you are truly an artistic inspiration to me.

    love you xo

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  5. Thank you.

    As always, your post was beautiful, breathtaking, and I am awash in gratitude for your presence in my life.

    xo

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  6. Thank you for this. This project. These words.

    Abiding with you.

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  7. Hi Angie,

    I guess there really is no coincidence, hey. I just wrote a post about C. this morning because it's one of those weeks and I guess it can serve as my contribution.

    Thanks again for doing this. I thought your update was beautiful. ((HUGS))

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  8. Hi Angie,

    I am crying right now. Not because of what you wrote here, although profound and beautiful,
    but because it's that time of year *again* and I am feeling so lost.

    Like J, I wrote about Hussein today, or at least I wrote about where I am today, and then I came over and saw your post...It just feels right to put it out there, and you know what? I didn't edit, or rethink anything I wrote, it just spilled out.

    Like you I understand the tidying up part of writing about my grief, and I have tried to do it for myself, more than my friends or readers, but today, I just can't and that helps me feel that I am connecting to different parts of my grief...no one is more significant than the other.

    A million thanks for setting the stage yet again.
    I am sending a huge virtual hug to you. Your tribute to our babies and to the beauty of hope is just what I needed at this moment.

    FYI, my blog is for updates only, so I don't leave comments open, but I am happy to link up.

    xxo
    Salma

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  9. Probably my favorite post you've ever written, if that's okay to say. Every sentence was packed so full I had to re read them several times. Thanks for posting and starting this ball again...

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  10. I'm in. I'm so in.
    I hope I can keep up with the reading this year again as well.

    Thank you for everything you do for us. The community bows down to you.

    xo

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  11. Beautiful post, Angie. You are just such an amazing writer.

    Also, I'm glad you're bringing this back. I realize I need to take an inventory of where I'm at right now, and this will be a great way to do it again this year.

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  12. Goodness, Angie, this is just right. Just right. Just right. Love.

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  13. Dear Angie,
    Thank you. You make sense of a senseless catastrophe.
    I need to write more. It helps, and it empowers me.
    I lost my boy, Feb 27, 2012.
    I dont want to be hung up on the story of how or why it all happened... I want to write about how it is all-always-happening.
    Thank you again. Sending my love
    Veronica

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  14. I read this last year Angie, because I followed another blog (belonging to a baby loss mama), I never expected to have a contribution to make to it one year later. How very naive of me perhaps, we were trying for a baby at the time, after all. Thank you for sharing with us again. (to all the mama's)
    V
    xxx

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  15. I love this. I know that nearly 18-months out is so incredibly different than nearly 6-months.

    The part where you said you've woven Lucia and her death into your life really hit me. I remember reading Anne's House of Dreams shortly after losing Eliza, and marveling with disbelief that the loss of Anne's first baby girl could be just a chapter in her life, because I felt that my life would forever be shadowed in grief--and not just grief, but that visceral agony of the early months. And I felt like it NEEDED to be, in order to do Eliza justice, to adequately demonstrate how much I wanted and needed and loved her. I am (slowly) learning there is another way. Partly because mamas like you are continue to show me. Thank you for that.

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  16. Hi Angie, I love this idea. I could not get my link to work above...so I'll just post it here. www.lovealwaysleavesamark.blogspot.com I am 9 months 1 week and 4 days from Elle's birth and subsequent death and I am finding a comfort and peace that I have not found in the past 9 months and I am so thankful! Thanks so much for posting and I hope you are having a great day!


    Nicki

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  17. I really connected with your very last paragraph. "I just say two, because Lucia isn't an anecdote. She isn't casual conversation. She is my love, not my statement, or my eff you to a society who can't deal with daughter-death." Ugh...this is what I'm doing. This is what I'm complaining about in my Right Where I Am this year. I want to give the finger to everyone for not wanting to know about her...when I should just be weaving her into my life without having to carry a giant sign telling everyone my daughter died. My own journey and my destination will be different than yours...I know...but this just really opened my eyes.

    And this just is such a beautiful project and I think it's really great to do every year. Thank you for sharing. xoxo

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  18. Thanks for this, Angie, for this project and for this post. I am smiling and wincing over the idea of a griefasaurus.

    And that last paragraph - yes, yes, yes.

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  19. So much here Angie,especially the paragraph that includes this line
    "There is dew and moss and the Grand Canyon. And my baby died. "

    I'm joining in again, and my post is very much right where I am today.

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  20. Beautiful thoughts and thank you for being so brave to share your journey with all of us out here in cyberspace. Looking forward to writing mine and taking a special moment to reflect on right now.

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  21. I love what Lucia taught you, Angie. Thank you for sharing and provoking us. As always, I love to read your words. So well written, so well spoken, so clearly felt. Hugs to you my friend. Lucia and Chase are so close in age. I'm sure they know each other--or I never would have found you. xoxoxo

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  22. I'm glad that you've brought this project back Angie and this is a beautiful post to start it off with.

    I love the image of your digital watch, changing colours. Something so mysterious and strange, over the Crest toothpaste. I feel those odd moments so frequently in my own life, a mixture of the mundane and the otherworldly.

    And we are 'creatures built for death.' That is a perfect description. We may walk a few wobbly little steps before we succumb, make it a mile or so, but none of us make it far. Sometimes that makes me feel strangely comforted. In a despairing kind of way, it's only a short stumble and it's all over. And I'll take my comforts wherever I can get them whilst I'm completing my own short set of steps.

    I'm glad you can reach out for comfort now, you are always so critical of yourself and judge yourself so harshly. It pains me to read that you considered yourself a hypocrite for asking for God's help (and it makes me feel like a shallow fool by comparison!)

    Angie, if this space is a disservice then I will erm . . . . . eat my hat? Need to think of something more dramatic but that's the best I've got at the end of the day here.

    I think that we need the massaging and editing and cajoling. But I don't think it is actually any of those things that you do. All of those terms you've chosen sound vaguely derogatory somehow. I think you are learning and explaining and I don't think it matter that you don't always cry. You are doing what we would call in data analysis, the rather cringe-y term 'the deep dive.' And I'm glad you're here, to venture into the depths.

    But, yes, I miss the life that was almost my family's and wasn't. I don't say I have three children anymore either. It feels like a lie in my mouth even though it's true. And I still miss my daughter, the daughter that I might have had. I miss her terribly.

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  23. Thank you for the opportunity to do this again. Beautiful post.

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  24. Thank you Angie for your writing and your inspiration and encouraging me to do battle with the dongle and get something up on my blog.

    I'm with Catherine on the 'creatures built for death'. There is something amazingly freeing in that awareness.

    Love to you. x Louise

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  25. Thank you for doing this again this year... it is therapeutic to write of my journey and to read other beautiful posts such as yours <3

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  26. My mind struggles sometimes with the fact that it isn't a sad life, at how ordinary and wondrous it is. And Lucia's gone and Henry's gone. I hear that. I feel that.

    Thank you for doing this again.

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  27. What you said about casual conversation is something I have always felt. It comes up when it comes up, but I've felt that my losses are too important to be brushed aside by someone who doesn't understand. That's why I don't bring them up unless it matters. And I also know how you feel about expecting death. It makes it easier.

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  28. Great post, as usual. love these glimpses into your life and mind

    I'm in this year!

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  29. I too was very impacted by your last paragraph. At a mere 7 months past the loss of my daughter, I am very much in the place of wanting to open the eyes of "a society who can't deal with daughter-death". I want to scream at everyone about my daughter. But I know they can't handle it. I am frustrated at the isolation and taboo of talking about baby loss. Tired of the pitying, pained looks on the faces of others when they don't know what to say or how to act around me.
    I have a coworker who privately told me that he also lost his first born, a daughter, at birth. His wife is now pregnant again, finally after 7 years. I recently witnessed someone ask him if this is his first child, and he said yes. It bothered me. I was surprised at how much it bothered me. Like it perpetuates stigma of baby loss. And the rule that it should never be spoken of in the real world. I thought, everyone has to do what they are comfortable with, but I don't want to deny my daughter.
    Thank you for opening MY eyes to another perspective. Your last paragraph is so profound and makes so much sense.

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  30. Thanks Angie... this is such a beautiful way to reflect on our little ones and the love they bring to our lives, even when they are not in our arms. Thinking of you xoxo

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  31. thank you Angie, I think this is an amazing project and I am so glad to have found your blog.

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  32. I made my peace not telling anyone about Gabe the night I read the verse about casting pearls before swine in my lectionary.

    Gabriel is holy, sacred, the most profound miracle in my life. I don't want to share that with the uninitiated masses.

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  33. Hey sweet Angie.. I'm coming up for air, and apparently going under again.. but wanted to thank you so much for hosting this again this year. Love and light as always...

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  34. I don't think you do new readers a disservice. It is so hard, in the beginning, to articulate grief and to read it articulated already, by someone who knows, is immensely helpful. Thank you.

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  35. Oh my gorgeousness friend. I have been waiting for a moment to take and read this post for the past day. I am so glad that moment came.

    I loved what you said about the first two years were you trying to learn how to live with your daughter, and now it is something completely different. That is exactly where I am. A little perplexed, but yes, the world is now more beautiful than ever.. because we've been to hell and back. My goodness, you have made so much sense of what I wrestle with daily.

    Big big hugs xxxxx

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  36. Really lovely. You've guided me to think about what I have experienced and am still experiencing, instead of just going through the motions of it. I lost my baby boy Sparrow January 14, 2012.

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  37. Amazing as always Angie. So much of what you said resonates with me ... about the change in grief, the way it has woven into my daily life, feeling functional rather than debilitating. I told Jason this evening that my one "want" tomorrow is to have time to write a blog. I hope to participate. I know my "right where I am" now is TOTALLY different than last years.
    Thank you for writing. You do a service ... NOT a disservice. Beautiful.

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  38. I find so much comfort in reading all of these beautiful posts. I decided to "man up" and share this year. Thank you all for giving me the courage to do so.

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  39. I love that you offer this space. It often times allows me to clear my head and think about things I wouldn't normally.

    Thank you <3

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  40. Beautiful post!! Thanks for doing this again this year. I like this link up!

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  41. Angie,
    This is a beautiful post and a great idea to do. In the 18 weeks and 3 days since my daughter Daisy was born and died at 24 weeks, I have found blogs like yours and other babyloss mums to be incredibly supportive. Reading about how other mums are doing at different distances from their loss has helped me see that while right now it's a daily battle, there will come a time where the battling days will be further apart.

    There is so much that touches me in this post, but most particularly this: "There is dew and moss and the Grand Canyon. And my baby died. "
    This expresses where my thoughts are a million times a day. I feel like I'm 2 people, in the same body with with 2 minds running parallel to each other. With one, I am moving around, going to work, talking to people, but at the same time there is a constant running commentary of what I should really be doing. When I'm walking home from work and it's lightly raining, my internal commentary is going, "Well I wouldn't be coming home from work because I'd be home wth Daisy and we wouldn't be out in the rain because she'd only be 2 weeks old now."
    Thank you for your blog, for this post and others, and for providing the space for other babyloss mums to link their blog posts of where they are now. I will spend some time this weekend reading the posts and learning from those who are sadly travelling this roa ahead of me.
    Katy

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  42. Wow! Just added my own. Thankyou so much for this opportunity.

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  43. Thanks for this, I love the idea!

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  44. I wish I had seen this sooner! Thanks! I'm in too!

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  45. It has been too long. Thank you for making me take that moment to do a stockcheck and a think, I often forget. xxxx

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  46. What a wonderful project, it has been lovely to take the opportunity to sit and think "where am I right now?" Beautiful post, thank you.

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  47. "I just say two, because Lucia isn't an anecdote. She isn't casual conversation. She is my love, not my statement, or my eff you to a society who can't deal with daughter-death. And I still miss her."

    Yes.

    And this year, by hook or crook, I will read and comment on every one. I owe you all. Thank you.

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  48. What a beautiful post...

    I will read every one of these stories, thank you for doing such a wonderful link up.

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  49. Thanks for doing this again

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  50. Hello and thankyou for this fantastic project. I've lept and linked, without giving myself time to chicken out, or I would've spent days re-writing my post, and then deleted it.

    Your post uplifted and confronted me all at once. I will need to read it a few times to take it all in. What you have to say about inviting Lucia into your life now, struck at my heart. It's what I struggle with, right where I am at 20 months. That you can accept that maybe Lucia is around you, and you still don't call her an angel.. I feel the edges of that, my sons presence, pressing on me, and for now, I resist it.

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  51. This is such a great project. I wish I had participated last year. Thanks for starting it in the first place, and for doing it again.

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  52. thank you for doing this. xo

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  53. Thank you for doing this again. I have decided to join in this year...

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  54. I just learned about this project and am happy to be a part of it. Thank you!

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  55. Thank you for doing this project again this year. Your post is beautiful.

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  56. Oops, wrote my post but forgot to link it up!

    Thanks so much for hosting this again. I can't wait to read everyone's stories.

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  57. I am so excited to see you started this again! I needed a reason to BLM write again!

    You're post is amazing- like always!

    A Million Thank Yous!

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  58. Angie, thank you so much for this link-up. What a wonderful idea! I have read about half of the entries so far, but plan on reading them all.

    It has been so interesting to read different points of view on the journey of grief, from recent losses to losses from several years ago. So many beautiful words.

    Even though we all have such different stories and lives, I find myself nodding along to so many things people write. We can all relate on many levels. You are a lovely writer. Just lovely. Thank you again. It has been such a blessing to connect to old blogger friends and find new.

    Much love and hugs,
    Hannah Rose

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  59. As I say in my post, at first, I wondered what I could write that would be different from last year. Of course, once I started, the words just came. Thanks, Angie, for the opportunity to do this again! Off now to read some of the other posts...

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  60. Your words resonated profoundly with me too. I wrote mine and posted it before I read yours but there are definite feelings in common.

    And your last paragraph is beautifully and painfully true.

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  61. I wrote about where I am today on my blog. I needed this right now. Your words are perfect and this project is beautiful. Thank you doing this.

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  62. Thank you! I cannot adequately describe the positive feelings that come from being part of a community of people who understand.

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  63. Thanks and thanks and thanks. Reading your post through again, I just wanted to say how much I love your writing.

    I'm in, again.

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  64. I linked before I wrote my own Right Where I Am post. This morning I finally did it. Thank you so, so much for your writing, your gathering of stories. I look forward to reading and reading and reading.

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  65. Thanks for doing this again Angie, it really is great xx

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  66. Thank you so much for doing this. I am looking forward to reading all of the posts and writing my own was certainly very therapeutic for me.

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  67. Thank you for this. I needed it to get out of my non-writing funk. I appreciate all that you and the other mamas and dads here do to keep this community so wonderful.

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  68. I want to thank you again for giving us a place to come and link with so many other people enduring this road. It is always heartwarming to work with you and be given the opportunity to link with so many other strong mommas and poppas traveling this road.
    God Bless

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  69. Thank you so much for putting this up again! I didnt blog last year, but I did a lot of reading. It helped me tremendously to know that there were so many out there struggling with the same stuff I was and who were in the same stage as me. I hope I can help someone out this year by posting where I am.

    Your post was just beautiful. And I look forward to reading many more like yours!

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  70. Very beautiful! Thanks for the project!

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  71. I totally added my time wrongly. Nice!

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  72. thank you so much for this project. for your writing, and your inspiration to babylost parents everywhere. and i'm so sorry to hear about your miscarriage. thinking of you, and your precious Lucia always (that is our rainbow's middle name).

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  73. Took me a few days to figure out where I was, but I think I finally nailed it down. Thanks for being a lovely example of channeling pain into beauty, for making your corner of the internet a safe place to land, and for inviting others to participate in this exercise. xo

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  74. Thank you so much for doing this again! It's amazing to me just how different my two posts are. This was a great idea.

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  75. So glad you did this again! Thanks!

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  76. I have added my 'right where I am'
    thank you for this opportunity. What a fantastic idea, and reminds me that I am not alone with my grief, even on very dark days. xx Thank you x

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  77. Thank you for this. I've been slowly reading each piece. It's taking time, as I need breaks, can't handle all the stories at once. At just ten weeks out, everything I feel is so raw, so new. But I am immensely helped by seeing into others journeys. I am immensely helped by the comments and support. I am immensely touched.

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  78. Thank you so much for doing this. It has been a very long time since I actually took some time for myself to see exactly where I am in this journey.

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  79. Thanks for doing this again. I like evaluating where I am every once in awhile. It's like spring cleaning.

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  80. Helen, Haydon's Mommy, I tried to leave a comment on your blog, or email you, but both are disabled on your blog. I know when I started blogging no one could email me. Just wanted to thank you for participating. xo

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  81. Ooh, can I still do this or am I too late? I think griefosaurus might just be my new favorite word.
    Your post and your place, right now, resonates with me because I feel that space too, that I can put one foot in front of the other and keep going without that piercing pain and know she is part of our family without having to defend and yell out that she was here.

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  82. Thank you for bringing our stories together through a common thread. I participated last year and found it cathartic to share my story and share in others' stories.

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  83. Haydon's Mummy - I tried to leave you a comment and thank you for your beautiful story, I connected with it all so much - it's exactly where I am right now. You have comments disabled so I can't make the comment, I'll post it here instead and just hope that you see it...

    I have sat and sobbed over your post for the longest time. I can relate to almost every single thing you have described. I am in this place, too. Immmersing myself in books and other people's stories, afraid to go outside, sleepless, exhausted.

    When my son died, a neighbour sent me a letter. She told me that years ago she had to give birth to a daughter that had already died inside her. She wrote something that I have thought of every single day since I read it, "You will never, ever get over this terrible loss. But you will learn to let your life grow around it." I cling onto that, it gives me hope that this isn't the end of the line for me.

    I've been working my way through all the stories on this linkup, and it has helped me so much. It's an amazing project and I'm so thankful that Angie thought of it. I've been so afraid of where I would end up. Surely I couldn't exist without my baby boy, surely I would just shrivel up and die, and never ever function again. I've learnt something in reading all these stories - people find a way to live with their terrible loss. They are always looking back. But they look forwards, too.

    I am facing this train alongside you - and I am sending you all the love I have. Thinking of you and your precious Haydon John James, he is beautiful. I hope he will send you strength and peace.

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  84. Your writing is beautiful!! I cant believe how close our losses are also! You are a brave, strong, amazing woman!!! Id love to chat sometime. Thanks so much for your example!!

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  85. Haydon's Mummy - this is for you as I couldn't comment on your blog:

    "God this was me, this was so me. I could relate to this very much and it sucked me back to that dark time when I could still count the number of weeks she had been gone on my two hands. Pure hell. I didn't like going out either. I didn't like doing a lot of things.
    I think I probably felt more like I was alive, but not living. Either way, it is not a nice place to be. I'm so sorry Haydon didn't get to stay. Thank you so much for being brave and taking part, so soon after your loss."

    Sally
    xo

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  86. Angie, thank you for bringing this project back this year, as I didn't get a chance to participate last year. It was nice for a chance to get my thoughts off of my chest, and it's nice to see that there are so many mamas out there that have a lot of similar feelings. <3

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  87. Angie,

    There's so much in this post and all of the comments. I could spend all day. It's the bit about finding peace from the confusing swirl of loss and sadness and unexpected beauty that spoke to me most. It's ok to be ok--go figure.

    Thank you for this project. I'm off on my commenting journey.

    T

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  88. Thank you for this project - it was powerful and helpful to try to articulate where i am now rather than where i've been. to try to talk about right now. i look forward to reading other people's posts and finding new mamas. xoxoxo

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  89. Man am I late to the game! I haven't even read any yet, but I now have a project for the next few weeks. Thanks for this, for the second time. You are amazing.
    xo

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  90. GRIEFASAURUS!!! Yes. YES! I loved every word of this. Thank you.
    xo

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  91. She is most definitely not casual conversation and I too can relate to being a griefasaurus.

    Thank you xxx

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  92. Thanks for doing this. I love reading all the posts.

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  93. Thank you for doing this. For helping us all connect and bond and heal and grieve. It's a beautiful thing.

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  94. beautifully profound, as always Angie. Thank you for this.... what a gift you are. xo

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  95. Thank you for doing this again. It is good to see how things have changed or not changed in the last year.

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  96. So so glad you are hosting this again Angie - such a brilliant idea. I look forward to reading my way slowly through these posts.

    There is so much I love about your post, but this bit especially was very true for me:

    "We seize the happiness when it comes, because we lived with happiness guilt, and it is a pointless, ridiculous guilt."

    It is a beautiful freedom, to be able to enjoy those happy moments, and to release yourself from the guilt. I don't always manage it, but it is good to be reminded of how useless that guilt is.

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  97. Sorry I linked to last years right where I am....

    I think I've got it right this time.

    big hugs

    Maria
    xxxxx

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  98. Thank you for hosting this project again. It's been months since I've written anything and I was beginning to feel guilty for neglecting my many fans (ha!).

    You are one of my all time favorites. Thank you for being my friend and for sharing yourself and your family with us.

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  99. Just submitted my link. Thanks for giving us all the opportunity to participate. Now I'm off to read... xo

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  100. In 3 days it will 8 months since our daughter came into this world and left the very same day.

    I am currently expecting my rainbow baby, something we said we would do no matter what. Nothing will ever replace our daughter but it's bitter sweet.

    Thanks for this!

    Angie

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  101. I just posted and linked. I think this is a great idea and I have read several other right where I am posts too. Thank you.
    Em

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  102. Sharing right where I am today. Thanks for the reminder to really think about this more often.

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  103. A beautiful post and, a beautiful project. I'm humbled by the chance to read and share here. I'm so sorry your Lucia is not in your arms and, I'm sorry you had to go through a miscarriage as well.

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  104. preparing myself to take part for the first time

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  105. Thank you for doing this again. I participated last year as well. This has been a good way for me to look back on my journey, on the days I feel like I haven't gone anywhere, I can see how I am changing. It is also encouraging to read the stories of so many, to feel not so alone and to be able to see what is yet to come for myself. Thank you!

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  106. Thank you for your post and for giving me the opportunity to share my daughter.

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  107. Thank you for sharing this wonderful idea. It took me a bit to write it all down, but every word came from the heart.

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  108. Thank you for sharing your story and creating this project. I wish that none of us had to live in a world without our child/children. Sending you peace, hugs and gratitude.

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  109. Just linked up (a little late to the game again). But, thank you, for sharing and for giving us all the opportunity to share as well!

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  110. I've been wanting to participate in this since I saw you were doing it again. I'm finally here. Thanks for pulling us all together in this beautiful way!

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  111. i haven't been here in about a year. thanks for the inspiration. it's been long overdue.

    xo to you

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  112. Finally got around to joining the project! I posted it on Josh's blog. Lots of love, Kari

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  113. Thank you for providing a space for so many to heal. <3

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  114. Better late than never, I did it finally! This is such a powerful exercise, thank you Angie!! xo

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  115. Thank you for this. I had not linked my blog when i wrote it.. but fixed it now.

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  116. Hey, will you be doing this again this year?

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What do you think?