Some losses are loud. Some are quiet, almost invisible, yet they leave pieces of you scattered in their wake. I never imagined grief could feel like this—an unrelenting tide of love, guilt, and longing that pulls you under even as life insists you stay afloat.
I felt that I had failed him. If I had just gone to meet him—maybe, just maybe—he would still be here. I fought constantly with guilt, the what ifs and maybes. It swallowed me whole. Deeper and deeper into depression I sank.I was angry.
First, I was furious with myself for not being there when he wanted me beside him. Then I became angry with him for what I believed was selfishness. And finally, I was angry with God. I lost my faith in Him for what felt like a cruel act of taking away the love of my life.
Guilt. Depression. Anger.
The emotions circled endlessly, repeating themselves in a vicious cycle that felt like it would never end.
My dad, always the minister, finally said something to me that stopped me in my tracks.“Tonya, if you would have gone… it could have been both of you.”
That statement shocked me to my core.God, in His wisdom, His hand on was on everything. My children could have lost not only the man who had stepped into the role of their father, but also their mother. I had never allowed myself to see that possibility. I had been so consumed by my own despair that I had lost sight of what truly mattered.
My children.
They still needed me.
Several weeks later, I learned something that took my breath away.
I was carrying our child.
A piece of him that would continue to live on in this world.
It was still very early, only about seven weeks, so I kept the news quietly tucked away in my heart.
Even with that fragile hope growing inside me, I continued to struggle through the weight of my grief. I worked in the History Department, attended my classes, and focused on doing the only thing I felt capable of at the time.
Surviving.
Eventually, I began writing letters to Paul.
It became a way to release the things I kept bottled inside, the words I would never again get to say to him.
Early in April of that semester, I had a solid routine. I was preparing to pick courses for the fall, planning a small summer vacation with my family, trying to focus on the life I still had.
As I sat in the office studying, a sharp pain hit me, stealing my breath. I remember silently praying, Please, no.
I stood, trembling, and the truth became painfully clear. Ten weeks. Ten weeks I had carried our child, only to lose that precious piece of us.
The cycle of grief ebbed and flowed, but each massive wave crushed me all over again.
I have never shared the loss of our child, and yet that little life was so loved, so wanted, and was a piece of both of us.
Though time could not let him or her stay, that baby deserves to be remembered, cherished, and held in my memory just as much as Paul.
In the quiet corners of my heart, I keep our child alive, a fragile reminder of love that was, and always will be.
“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” — Winnie the Pooh
Ebbs & Flows 