As the great Civil Rights leader, John Lewis so eloquently writes in his book, Across That Bridge: Life Lessons & a Vision for Change, “faith has power, but often this truth does not become meaningful to us until we are tested by a challenge we think we may not survive. However, when I reflect back over the years, He was closer than I even knew. My hope has come from a growing faith in God living through experiences that seemed unbearable where I thought He had abandoned me. Hope keeps us moving forward, hope gets us out of bed each morning, hope helps us to remain present and invested in the family we do have left on Earth, and affirms that we are not alone! Hope that one day it might not hurt quite so much or that the pain won’t bombard our thoughts 100% of the time. When we find even one person who understands what it feels like to walk around with a part of your heart missing, we find hope. Each story is different, each experience a tragedy beyond comparison. As parents whose arms also ache to hold their child one last time, we accept you for who you are, wherever you are along your grief path. There seems to be an agreement that we will not judge you for the manner in which you grieve, nor will we put a time limit on your journey. It is an opening to share your story and to know the person listening will not say something insensitive. The comfort of understanding and knowing you are not alone is like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer that radiates love throughout your entire body. I don’t have to hide my inner turmoil at the dichotomy of emotions I feel on a daily basis, as happiness and grief play tug of war with my heart. As one bereaved mother to another, I don’t have to explain the pain behind the smile. And, more times than I can count, the person asking has lost an infant or child and much like the magical bond that exists among parents of preemies, it is the same for bereaved parents. Second, it gives me a chance to say Zoe’s name out loud which I crave daily. They don’t stop being triplets just because one dies. I usually tell the person asking that they are triplets and I do this for the following reasons: Because they are, in fact, triplets who grew in my womb together, were born together and spent almost 4 months at home together after 9 ½ months in the NICU. Their sister, Zoe, is in Heaven.” To which I usually get a surprised “Oh”, followed by silence and diverted eyes or an honest look of empathy accompanied by “I’m so sorry.” But sometimes, I hear a quiet “I lost a baby once, too.” I smile at the woman who is still admiring my girls and reply: “Actually, they’re triplets. Does this lady care that one of my girls died? Am I just going to depress her and ruin her day by bringing to the light the fact that babies die? How do I phrase it? Surviving triplets? Two of my triplets? Two of three? How much longer will I have to stand here? Can I just turn and run away? If I just say ‘yes, they’re twins’, have I dishonored Zoe and confused Avery and Lily? Do I have the energy to deal with this today?” In a nanosecond, I have the following conversation with myself: “No, they’re not twins, they’re triplets you just can’t see the third one. “Oh, twins! They’re so cute!” exclaims the lady in the checkout line at the grocery store.
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