And

Every since we returned to the "new normal" of life after Isabella died, it feels like each day consists of "and." Generally, an experience or day is "good and hard." It may be more shades of "joyous and excruciating," but I've found that my vocabulary has significantly decreased when describing life after the death of our daughter.

Almost every time I talk with my sister and hear about her and life with my infant niece, the conversations are good and hard. Every aspect of me is grateful that her daughter is alive. It is a joy to hear my niece crying in the background and it's hard. I wish I had my daughter too. It's hard to hear her struggling with very little sleep and I'm so glad that her daughter is alive, crying, and in their home rather than the hospital or cemetery, even though they all need more sleep. 

Working in a job I generally enjoy with coworkers I care about is good. And I'm more exhausted this year than any previous year, so each day takes more effort. While pregnant I was primarily physically tired. Grieving takes an enormous amount of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual energy and is draining.

Reading about Facebook friends and acquaintances who have recently had babies is good. And I almost always unfollow them because seeing photos of babies unexpectedly pop up in my news feed is hard and can throw off my entire day.

Over the weekend I saw that the brother of a friend from college had a son who was stillborn at full term. Knowing the pain that the other couple is experiencing is heartbreaking. I wish that, somehow, no more babies would die after my daughter died. That is not how it works. With everything in me, I would prefer having to unfollow all of my friends on Facebook because they all have beautiful, chubby, healthy babies, than see anyone else suffer the death of their child.

Every day we can see and we search for the beauty in life. The Fall leaves are starting to turn and they are beautiful. The air has the delicious feel of crisp fall and smells like a new season. And watching the leaves changing at the cemetery, knowing that my daughter will never play in autumn leaves anywhere or make leaf houses in the yard, is heart wrenching. 

Perhaps daily life is always an exercise in experiencing two emotions that seem opposites. Loss can bring both of these aspects of the seemingly mundane into more clear focus. While a part of me yearns for a life that only consists of the glorious and uplifting, life is richer when I experience and can name the sorrowful and tragic as well. 

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