Grief is a strange bedfellow. It is both cold-hearted and distant, and yet suffocatingly confining.

The leaves behind my house are changing, red and yellow. The wind is coaxing them to dance and flutter about. I watch them when I’m resting. They make me feel calm.

There’s residue from medical tape in spots on my arms. I have to dig at it to get it off, but that seems like too much work, so most of it is still there.

My hands are bruised from all the blood draws, but they are no longer puffy from the extra fluids.

It hurts to walk, but it’s getting a little easier. I’m tired. Very tired.

I posted my story last night but then I got so very anxious I took it down. I’ll post it again when I’m ready. The short version is this. I had an ectopic pregnancy that ruptured. I had emergency surgery to stop the significant internal bleeding. We lost the baby.

I’m home now, in half hibernation, surfacing only when I need air.

My heart breaks, but I know I just have to ride this out, crying when I need to and grieving as I can.

I’m grateful to be alive.

I know this side of heaven I may never learn the ‘why,’ but I’m trusting there is one. Is God still good? I know Him to be so, so I will cling to that as these waves toss me. I’ll ride the current to calmer waters.

My boys were roughhousing this evening, their screams and squeals filling in the silence that has otherwise permeated our house. It was a welcome reprieve.

Thank you for your continued prayers as we heal.

*My children do not know the extent of what happened. Please be sensitive in what you say in their presence. Thank you.*