Consolation

It's funny - I walk around composing posts for here in my head ... actually is that funny or is that sinister? Whichever, it's what I do right now. Anyway, if I had managed to post this up yesterday, then it would have been very different. That is one of things I find so very hard about this grief - I'm used to considering myself an emotionally stable person. Not any more. I know so many deadbaby mamas find it hard to sleep after a loss. Not me. I welcome the oblivion that comes with sleep - I think because it's a release from this dizzying array of emotion that swamps me when I'm awake and doesn't give me time to catch my breath.

Anyway, I was considering this post whilst standing in church. I have time to do this, because I find it virtually impossible to participate in the service in any meaningful way right now ... and I got to thinking about consolation. One word, two meanings. The thing about having a baby is there is no consolation prize - it's an all or nothing scenario. Either you get to grow, birth & raise a baby ... or you don't. Maybe, the two meanings aren't so different - maybe the consolation prize is finding those things that console - that offer consolation.

I have found them: my husband, who lightens dark days for me. My children who simply have to exist to make a day special. My best friend, who was at Emma's birth. Who, five months on, still cooks for us sometimes to save me the effort. But, I know where I'm going with this: the consolation of my faith. I know, I know ...it seems like I'm obsessed - two out of my four posts mention this but it's pretty fundamental to me and pretty fundamental to my grief process. I've been a Christian for nearly 30 years - I can't just walk away. I've thought about it several times in the last 5 months but actually becoming apostate isn't all that easy for me. You'd think stopping believing something would be easy, right? Especially when continuing to believe requires some pretty breathtaking leaps of trust. But no ... not for me. I remain convinced of the existence of God. I suppose that is something - the way I wander around the house shouting at Him about my daughter's death ... well, that would be crazy if I didn't believe right? I want to believe that He is the same as He was to me before October 14th: good, loving and personal. And, try as I might to deny it - the days I feel a sense of connection to Him are the days when the grieving is gentle ... this, I suppose, is consolation.

But I stand in church and I can't pretend that I'm okay with the fact that Emma died and God either caused or allowed that ... arggh. I thought having faith would help in such tragic circumstances but sometimes I think that believing the universe is random and our children dying was random bad luck might be easier. But, I can't change my absolute unshakeable belief that my daughter did not end when her life here did. I believe she is alive in heaven, that she is whole and healthy and happy there. Does it make it easier? I suppose yes - her death marks a pause in our relationship. It doesn't deny her or I the chance to be together again someday. It brings me no comfort that she is not in my arms right now. I am not consoled by this idea.

I am quite sure that this will not be my final musing on this subject ...