Mighty morphin' grief

September 30th was the twelfth anniversary of choosing to terminate our very much wanted pregnancy with our son, Elvis. I was 20 weeks.

This Monday, October 12th, marks seven years without my daughter, Adelaide.

Saturday, October 17th, would have been her 11th birthday.

This time of year is an emotional crapshoot. At any given moment on any given day, I might cry or feel completely content, or need a nap. Add in my depleted estrogen from the breast cancer medication, and lemme tell ya, it is an adventure for me and everyone within earshot.

Lately, as anniversaries are apt to do, I have found myself reflecting on these two distinct losses, and especially how my grief has changed over the years. Actually, I’ve been thinking about my grief A LOT.

Losing Elvis wrecked me. Not at first, though. At first, I was disappointed but ok. These things happen, I thought to myself, we just needed to try again. But then the drugs from the D&E wore off, and I have never felt emptier. Where life once existed within my body, there was none.

We planted a tree in his honor, and for months I cried looking through the box that held everything that proved he had ever existed, if only within my body. Condolence cards from friends and family, a few sonogram photos, and the hospital ID bracelet from the termination.

I was nine months pregnant with Adelaide when Elvis’ one-year anniversary came around. Still grieving his loss, I worked from the home that day. At the time, I struggled, knowing that the only reason Adelaide would arrive in just a few weeks was because Elvis couldn’t.

After Adelaide was born, I considered myself the mom of three: My first born Jackson, Adelaide, and Elvis. But as our family has continued to change shape with Adelaide’s passing and Anessa’s adoption – my relationship with Elvis has become more complicated.

While I still think of Elvis often, and look through his box every year or so, it has been years since his loss spurned tears. In conversation, I rarely mention him unless the conversation turns toward pregnancy loss, abortion, or compacted trauma. You know, light conversation. Chit chat.

It’s not because I am ashamed or regret our decision. Quite the opposite. When I think of Elvis, I am filled with gratitude that I lived in a state that allowed me to make the best decision for me and my family. That is quickly followed by fury that there are American women whose choice has been taken from them. Trauma creeps in when I read those women’s stories, and I grieve for them. And while I feel a maternal love toward Elvis, or the idea of him, I wouldn’t say that I am still grieving his loss exactly – and holy shit do I feel guilty about that.

This year, on September 30th, I reminded Miguel the importance of the date and shared with my aunt who was visiting from out of town. My aunt and I got matching tattoos that day, not for Elvis, but strawberries to symbolize Anessa (photos to come!). I’ve thought about a tattoo for Elvis but have yet to finalize anything.

Laying on the tattoo artist’s table and looking up at the square-paneled ceiling, I was reminded of the similar panels at the hospital where I lay through the second of two excruciating anatomy scans that would confirm Elvis’ undeveloped lungs. Outside of his box and a safari-themed nursery Pinterest board, those ceiling tiles are about all I have to remind me of him.

Still, I didn’t cry.

While the guilt is strong, I am thankfully so much stronger. I know that one reason grief is so complicated is that it is always changing shape. I used to think the right term for this was evolving, but that insinuates that our grief moves forward or improves with each iteration. Anyone who has lost someone meaningful knows that grief is rarely linear. In my book, Normal Broken, I likened my grief to a deranged chicken dance.

Grief doesn’t evolve – it morphs.

It morphs from delusion to debilitation, from rage to relief, from powerless to peacefulness – and every feeling in between. This year my grief for Elvis feels subdued, more like a memory. And that is ok. It doesn’t make me less maternal or a bad person - it means I’m healing from that particular asteroid. Aaand perhaps that I’ve been a bit preoccupied with the asteroids that came after.

Anyway, I’m trying to keep all this in mind for Adelaide’s anniversaries next week. That grief has been busy morphing these last seven years as well (longer if you count grieving during her life). And I need to accept and mount up for whatever form Adelaide’s grief takes.

Because when it comes to grief, the best form of preparation is surrender.

ID: Jackson at 2.5 years old standing on an orange and white patterned chair in blue pajamas. His pajama shirt is rolled up above his belly, and he has one hand on his belly. Kelly is standing next to him in black shorts and a purple tank top, with her shirt also rolled up over her belly. She is 18 weeks pregnant in the photo, and both are smiling at the camera.