Finding Me - Prologue

So, here we are.

Yesterday marked six years since Brian and I sat in a hospital room and held our precious, stillborn son. The lights remained low. There was no excitement or commotion. Just us, a nurse to check my vitals, and our new baby boy lying still in my arms. The nurse looked over my shoulder, "Awwwww. What will you name him?" she asked. "Jess," I replied. "Jess Samuel."

Every year I have dealt with this date in a different way. The first year I hid all calendars at the beginning of June and refused to let myself know the exact day; one year I wrote a song about my emotions; one year I tried to keep myself busy all day just to fall apart and sob all night.

This year I wrote. I wrote about him, but mostly I wrote about me. I pondered the lessons I've learned, and I explained in my best words, the landscape that my own path of healing has been through. It's been mostly uphill for the last six years, and at some points it has been cold, steep and rocky as I've tried to rediscover who I am. But I recently reached a sort of plateau, and I felt it important to recount my journey thus far.

I feel I've finished writing... though there seems to always be more I could do... and feel stirred to share it. So this coming week, in memory of him and to honor his influence in my life, I will. The length of it necessitates breaking it into segments, and I will post them here over the next few days.

Writing my story has been healing. I made it through the day yesterday with only a single tear and a couple dozen smiles. Today it's raining, and I miss him a bit more as I watch the raindrops splash in the puddles outside my window. But I feel peace.

I don't know how long I'll be able to enjoy this plateau before it's time to move on, but my weary muscles are enjoying the rest, and my tired eyes are drinking in the view. It is here that I've written my story. Here above the haze and looking down over where I've been. I'm sure there will come a time where I'm no longer comfortable here, and my curiosity about what lies over the next mountain will compel me forward.

But until then, I'll sit.