My step-dad is an amazing human being. He loves my mom, treating her with care, deference and respect and above everything, I am most grateful for that. But beyond loving my mom, he shows consistent care and love for me and my sisters too. In fact, every Christmas, he gives each of us - me, my sisters, and even my little niece - a piece of jewelry. About 4 years ago, he gave us each a pearl necklace. Mine is a beautifully thin, gold chain with a single pearl dangling from the end.
I love this necklace. I wore it in my wedding, and it was the perfect accessory for a beautiful day. And when I came home, I tucked it back in its velvet box, to be taken out for the next meaningful occasion. But lately, I seem to feel that many days are special. You see, I found out that the pearl is the June birthstone, and that realization has given my pearl necklace - and subsequently, every day - new meaning.
There is no way I could rewind the last year even if I wanted to. And quite frankly, there is no way that I would want to go through this all over again. At the same time, I don't regret getting pregnant and I don't regret having twins. Yes, I'm heartbroken at the way everything turned out and as my due date approaches, I feel that pain a little more acutely than I did before. But in it all, I can't believe that my sons were a mistake and I never want forget them. And I want to build a way to remember, a memorial of sorts.
So that is what my pearl necklace has become. It's a silent reminder that two precious, beautiful twin boys lived for as long as they did -- and they lived for a reason. So every morning that I open my eyes to the familiar ache of loss and every morning that I wake up from a dream of lost motherhood, I will put on my pearl necklace - the one that their grandpa gave me - and I will silently acknowledge that my sons lived.
9/29/10
9/28/10
Cruel People
This is not going to be one of those upbeat, hope-filled notes that you may have grown used to. Why? Because I feel like a boat parked in the middle of the lawn.
Yesterday, I had to email an adjunct to remedy some differences between the curriculum we approved and the curriculum she is using. It wasn't that big of a deal, but it sure wasn't taken that way. She emailed me back. Her email smashed me to pieces.
This woman who knows everything that happened to us this summer raked me over the coals for not being available this summer, for not responding to emails fast enough, and for not communicating at the pace I should have.
I felt like I got punched in the gut.
This is the most pronounced moment when I felt punished for what happened to us, punished for grieving my sons, and to be honest, I didn't even know what to say. But I had to respond, so I crafted a professional and concise response, had my office mate review it and I sent it off.
She repeated the insult, in more drastic a tone.
And I felt like I got beat up. For the rest of the afternoon, I was psyching myself up to keep working as I tried to keep a smile on my face and keep from crying. I kept the pretense up all the way through my class and I swear, the students couldn't tell at all that I was miserable and trying to keep it all together. Now I'm home and I feel achy...all over. And all I want to do is weep and weep and weep.
How can people be so cruel, so heartless as to assume that I could possibly stay on top of everything WHILE I was losing my sons? I did my best; I've worked hard to pick up and move on and to be honest, I feel like I've done a good job. But now, I feel deflated and lost and hurt. So, I'm going to crawl into bed, try to sleep, and wake up tomorrow to go back to work and try again. And tomorrow, when I want to curl up in a ball and hide, I'll remember the amazing people that surround me -- the generous people who care and give and support us. Those people far outnumber the cruel ones and for those people, I am endlessly grateful.
So, until tomorrow, I sleep. Goodnight, all!
Yesterday, I had to email an adjunct to remedy some differences between the curriculum we approved and the curriculum she is using. It wasn't that big of a deal, but it sure wasn't taken that way. She emailed me back. Her email smashed me to pieces.
This woman who knows everything that happened to us this summer raked me over the coals for not being available this summer, for not responding to emails fast enough, and for not communicating at the pace I should have.
I felt like I got punched in the gut.
This is the most pronounced moment when I felt punished for what happened to us, punished for grieving my sons, and to be honest, I didn't even know what to say. But I had to respond, so I crafted a professional and concise response, had my office mate review it and I sent it off.
She repeated the insult, in more drastic a tone.
And I felt like I got beat up. For the rest of the afternoon, I was psyching myself up to keep working as I tried to keep a smile on my face and keep from crying. I kept the pretense up all the way through my class and I swear, the students couldn't tell at all that I was miserable and trying to keep it all together. Now I'm home and I feel achy...all over. And all I want to do is weep and weep and weep.
How can people be so cruel, so heartless as to assume that I could possibly stay on top of everything WHILE I was losing my sons? I did my best; I've worked hard to pick up and move on and to be honest, I feel like I've done a good job. But now, I feel deflated and lost and hurt. So, I'm going to crawl into bed, try to sleep, and wake up tomorrow to go back to work and try again. And tomorrow, when I want to curl up in a ball and hide, I'll remember the amazing people that surround me -- the generous people who care and give and support us. Those people far outnumber the cruel ones and for those people, I am endlessly grateful.
So, until tomorrow, I sleep. Goodnight, all!
9/14/10
The bill
Life has gone on and on and on. It's been almost 3 months since I lost my boys, and I miss them. I've even found myself pulling out their pictures, just to look at them and wonder what they looked like. Yesterday, a bill came for John Kraus; I paused and held my breath for just a moment. It was as if seeing his name on paper made him all the more real, all the more alive, all the more dead. And it hurt. It really hurt.
Today, I don't have much to say. I just want to write their names and feel like they lived. Isaac Kraus. John Kraus. They are my sons, and I hope they know that I love them.
Today, I don't have much to say. I just want to write their names and feel like they lived. Isaac Kraus. John Kraus. They are my sons, and I hope they know that I love them.
9/9/10
Story time
The other night, I was curled up in bed re-reading the last book in the Harry Potter series: "The Deathly Hallows." It is one of my all-time favorite books. The story of redemption, sacrifice, loyalty and truth rings so true.
The Harry Potter series is one that I have always wanted to read to my children. In fact, I can't wait for my kids to take baths, put on their jammies, brush their teeth, and jump on my bed for a bedtime story. I can almost see us taking a year or two to make our way through the whole series, and I plan on reading it with the voices. Maybe even a hand-motion or two.
The other night as I was reading, I got the strangest feeling. It was as if I was piled under covers, sitting between two cute little boys who wanted me to read it with the voices. And strangely enough, I did. Quietly and to myself, I started reading "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" out loud to my sons. It was like they were there, with me, hearing the story of bravery and family, love and battle, hope and death. And for a moment, I got a chance to read a story to my boys.
It was a priceless moment, and as much as I know that it wasn't real, I partly feel like it was. And for a moment, I felt the hope of eternity, the hope that we have in Christ, the hope that someday, I will see my sons.
And maybe even read them a story.
The Harry Potter series is one that I have always wanted to read to my children. In fact, I can't wait for my kids to take baths, put on their jammies, brush their teeth, and jump on my bed for a bedtime story. I can almost see us taking a year or two to make our way through the whole series, and I plan on reading it with the voices. Maybe even a hand-motion or two.
The other night as I was reading, I got the strangest feeling. It was as if I was piled under covers, sitting between two cute little boys who wanted me to read it with the voices. And strangely enough, I did. Quietly and to myself, I started reading "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" out loud to my sons. It was like they were there, with me, hearing the story of bravery and family, love and battle, hope and death. And for a moment, I got a chance to read a story to my boys.
It was a priceless moment, and as much as I know that it wasn't real, I partly feel like it was. And for a moment, I felt the hope of eternity, the hope that we have in Christ, the hope that someday, I will see my sons.
And maybe even read them a story.
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