Written 8/5/15. Before we knew the extent of Abraham’s medical issues.
Sometimes, I feel claustrophobic.
It doesn’t happen often.
It is not a physical claustrophobia, like being in an elevator or in a small space.
It is all mental.
When a plane starts moving and I know that we are about to take off, I feel it.
When the signal gun would go off at the start of a 10k, half marathon or marathon, I would feel it.
When we would go to an ultrasound appointment and discover the heart beat was gone and we lost our baby, I felt it.
It happens when I am about to face something that terrifies me and I can’t leave. can’t get out of it. can’t run from it. can’t laugh it off. can’t push it out of my mind to another day.
The only option I have is to LIVE through it.
I am now in the air. I can’t ask the pilot to stop. I can’t get to the ground. I have to experience take-off and I have to experience landing. There is no stopping the motion.
I have to finish the race. No amount of fear of failure will be able to stop my feet from moving towards the finish line. Even if I come in last. Even if everyone passes me. Even if I trained so hard and still embarrassed myself on race day. I have to keep moving until I cross the finish line.
My body has to miscarry. I have to labor. I have to feel physical pain. I have to see my babies in a way I never imagined I would see them. I have to say goodbye.
These moments are terrifying to me, obviously to different degrees. But no amount of encouragement, breathing or prayer can change what is happening. I can’t wish it away. Hope for it to change.
I have to live and breath through it until it is over.
And I am experiencing this again.
This time, it is daily.
It doesn’t cripple me, because I know there is an end in sight. I know that the outcome will be one of the best seasons of my life.
Waiting for Abraham to come home is one of the most emotionally trying times of my life.
And no words of encouragement will make this momma heart feel 100% calm or 100% safe or 100% secure. No prayer you pray will change the fact that he isn’t coming home today.
Because the reality of this moment is, he isn’t coming home today. He is living under someone else’s roof. I can’t make sure he gets his tummy time. I can’t take him to a pediatrician when he gets pneumonia. I can’t . I don’t know the sound of his voice. I don’t know what it is like to feel his hands squish my cheeks.
That is my reality. And it isn’t going to change until he is here. And that could be months and months from now.
And it makes me feel claustrophobic and it puts my heart in a frenzy.
Every day, I have tears in my eyes. Every day, I whisper I love you to the sky.
It’s simple. It’s brutal.
It’s all I can do.