It had been a while since I’d cried that hard – that honestly. This blog post has been rolling around my mind like a marble clanking on the side of a plastic cup. I sat on the bathroom floor hugging my husband two days before the initial foster care visit with my raw heart exposed in ways I rarely allow.
Since I’d been off of work with the school year ending, I had reorganized our townhome. I rearranged furniture on every floor, wrestled mountains of laundry, and finally had the house in order – but I avoided that room. We have a three bedroom townhome and with the decision made to pursue foster-to-adopt via the county, I needed to clean out the spare bedroom which was an unused writing studio. I found last summer as I was recovering from chemotherapy that though I embellished the space with desert themed wall tapestries and typewriter inspired wall wraps, I would not work there creatively. My permanent writing station is at the dining room table – as it always has been with a cup of coffee I will reheat three times before I finish this post.
So with the excitement of starting the process of adding another family member, I wasn’t ready for the tsunami of emotions sneaking up on my heart’s shores. I could feel it creeping throughout the week as I cleaned, but I tried to distract myself. We always wanted more children, and our son Shiloh loves to spend time with other little ones. The nagging feeling nipped at my heart – the same irritation that comes with needing to be approved as good parents before we could have another one in our home. So, on the bathroom floor on Saturday night, I let it all out – so the pinpricks of sorrow and anger would be released to hopefully, one day, have true closure.
I cried because I cannot have any more children.
I cried because, in order to save my life, all of my would-be children were ripped out so I could continue to live.
I cried because I can never give my husband another child who looks like him.
I cried because it’s no one’s fault, but sometimes I feel guilty.
I cried because if cancer never happened, we would be trying to have a baby right now.
I cried because I will never feel the kick of a baby on the inside again.
I cried because I needed to –
I cried because I’m not over it.
When the foster care representative finally came on Monday night, after letting all my insecurities and unresolved pain fall like rain, my husband and I had such a peace about the whole process. Though I initially felt the pain, the heart to foster and to give a child a home they would not otherwise have, was greater than sorrow. I’ve always been built this way – wanting to adopt and foster since I was a child.
That’s probably it – that’s probably what I needed to learn on the floor. Becoming stronger doesn’t mean you don’t feel the pain and doesn’t mean it won’t come back in waves, but it means love and spiritual peace always-always-always consumes and illuminates the darkness. So, I choose to be a candle.