I know these pages have been quiet lately. It is not that I don't have anything to share, I have just been in a different place in my grief.
There were a few months of terrible morning sickness, and my grief simply went on hold. It wasn't that I didn't think about my Ruby, but from sun up, to sun down, I was in a nauseous ball on the couch. I knew that grieving, on top of being physically so sick, was too much for me. It was kind of a nice break to be truthful. I still thought of her and missed her, but my mind would not allow me to go beyond that. I started to miss my grief, and prayed to feel better for Matt, for Kate, and to have room for Ruby too.
Sometimes if feels good to grieve. Grief is a physical aching. When all things physical about Ruby feel gone, the grief is a welcome guest sometimes. To be honest, it feels like she is with me a lot. Sometimes if just feels normal that I can't see her, but I know she is close. I think I have so much faith in the plan, and really truly believe that Heaven is all around us, making it that much easier to deal with.
But there are painful, reminders every so often that she is physically not here. These moments come at unexpected times. They come with full force, and wreak havoc on my heart. On her birthday, after we had finished cleaning up the Run for Ruby, I was exhausted beyond exhausted, and was driving home when I realized I didn't have anything to take to Ruby's Place later that day. I was about to pass the cupcake store and thought I would run in and run out with a cute little cake for her. I picked out a strawberry cupcake with light pink frosting, and white sprinkles. It was the same cupcake I picked out for her last year. The same cupcake that would go uneaten.... I paid the cashier, and she said, "Have a good day!" Her comment instantly stung my heart. I wasn't expecting it. It just came in like a rushing river of daggers. Have a good day? Do you know that I just picked this cupcake out for my dead daughter and later we will sing happy birthday to her at the cemetery!?
I quickly made my way out of the store, and crossed the parking lot with tear-blurred vision. I could feel the pain building, and knew I needed to make it back to the privacy of my car before my emotions went to the next level. As I closed the door, the daggers ripped deeper, as the reality of the day sunk in. It was my daughter's 2nd birthday. We should be getting ready for her party. I should be putting a cute party dress on her, and be excited about giving her gifts. Thoughts of Kate's second party filled my mind. Smiles, laughs, cupcakes, singing, candle blowing, friends... I hated the little brown box sitting in the passenger seat. It contained a pretty pink cupcake that would sit at her place, and eventually be drenched with water from the sprinklers, and then removed and thrown in the trash by the grounds workers. In that moment it represented my loss. All I wanted was Ruby. All I wanted was Ruby, here to enjoy her second birthday with us.
I sobbed and sobbed, and let it all out in the safety of my car. Once I thought I was stable enough to drive, I started my car, and made my way out of the shopping center, and passed the park. I knew that we probably would have had her party at this park. I saw a family setting up some table clothes, and noticed balloons, and I wanted to stop and make sure they knew how lucky they were to be having a birthday party today. Surely, they could not know how lucky they were.
There have been a few moments in the past 17 months that I could imagine exactly what we would have been doing, had Ruby been alive still. Last July, Ruby would have been 18 months, and it would have been her first day of nursery at church. When we left for church that day, I looked at our front porch and thought, "If she was here, I would have made us all late by getting a picture of Ruby on her special day in the usual "special day" spot on the porch." It almost seems like if I wished it hard enough and close my eyes tight enough, I could see us there on the porch. There have been a couple of birthday parties that she would have been invited to, and seeing the pictures of the other party go-oers makes me miss my Ruby so much I could burst. When the nursery kids walk by on a walk, I am missing her from the group. I know that in our old life, she should be there, in those situations. She should be in those pictures, she should be at that park, she should be in that playgroup. But she is missing.
It is in those moments that her physical absence is so obvious, and the hurt just hurts, and there is nothing to take it away.
We ended up bringing her balloons from the Run for Ruby, and met up with some family to have a picnic at her place. When it was just the 4 of us left, we sang happy birthday, Kate blew out her candles (wishing for Christ to come back again soon with Ruby, like she always wishes) and we each had a bite of her cupcake. We thought she would have wanted to share. :)
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