Leaving Home

moving-tools-2-1529662-1280x960Today, I go from a city dweller to a suburbanite, and while I’m extremely excited about moving, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go. It isn’t that I’m leaving the buzz of city life for the quiet of the suburbs. It’s that I’m leaving my home where we found out we were pregnant. Where we found out we weren’t. And where we finally got to bring our boys home.

It’s where we celebrated and where we grieved.

In the nine years we’ve lived here, we’ve experienced such a wide array of joy and sorrow, as I’d imagine is true of many people living in one spot for a long time. This home has been a gathering spot for family and friends for holidays, BBQs and Super Bowl extravaganzas. And it has been a safe sanctuary for Double A and me when we need to be alone, together.

I know that home is where you make it, and I know we’ll be happy in our new house. But leaving here feels like I’m leaving a connection to Baby K, Sarah, Benjamin, and those we never met. I guess it is more a reminder of the times. I look around and I see the path from our bedroom where my water broke, and curl up on the couch in the exact spot where I had to make the first call after losing Baby K. I stand in the dining room where the doctor called to say that the amnio results on the twins came back perfectly normal, and walk out the door where we knew everything was not.

These experiences are the only physical connections I have Baby K, Sarah, Benjamin, and those we never met. I’ll never get to see them take their first step. Go to school. Or get married. There’s so little physical evidence that they existed, so it feels like I have to hold onto these just a little bit tighter.

These seem like painful reminders, and they are. But they are also part of limited experiences I had with those children. Of course there are positive memories as well. Like the floor outside the bathroom where Double A and I laid waiting for the results of that first pregnancy test. Or opening the front door to his parents after just finding out we were pregnant for the second time without wanting to give it away. And standing at the counter when we got the call we were matched with BB, or in the kitchen when I told Double A that I was pregnant with Little Guy.

I realize these memories—good and bad—will always be a part of me, no matter where I live. So maybe leaving the physical “here” is just another part of this ongoing and ever-changing grieving process. In the end, we may leave some aspects behind, but as long as we keep telling it, the story is still the sum of its parts.

*Photo credit.


Stories We Tell. 7 Came Before You: Pregnancy After Loss Support

heartsun_Mayur-Gala_croppedI’m over at Pregnancy After Loss Support today talking about the challenges of telling Baby Boy and Little Guy the story of their siblings who came before them. Here’s a snippet:

“Keeping these stories secret wouldn’t be fair to them, or their siblings. Part of it is simply the notion of talking about death to kids. But deeper than that, how do you talk about death, when you can’t share about their life?”

You can check out the full post here. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

*Photo credit.