Hope Does Float (and stings a little, too!)

Acknowledging loss after my miscarriage was important to me. 

I experienced most of the mourning process alone and worked through it so quickly - too quickly - squeezing in rides on the emotional and hormonal roller coaster between rides on Southwest and United Airlines. Work obligations monopolized my time and lonely hotel rooms occupied my space. As the dust began to settle, I felt empty. I felt numb. I felt like a fake. 

Sure, I was putting up a good front. And I DID (and still do) have hope. But I did not feel strong. I was screaming, yet lost, on the inside and holding it together by a thread. Not being one of those live hard/love deeply outwardly emotional kind of people, I sought something to help cope with my quiet grief...to really feel. I wanted it etched it into my soul. I wanted to endure pain profoundly. I wanted what was happening on the inside to somehow manifest itself on the outside - to show ostensibly and to experience completely.

Nine months before my pregnancy was confirmed (wow), I had been drawn to the image of an anchor with a heart found on Pinterest. Beneath the symbol is the phrase "hope anchors the soul", referencing Hebrews 6:19 that says, "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain,..." Even before that, I had added the sketch of an anchor to my "The Hubz" board that emphasizes the saying "I refuse to sink", reminding me of his Navy tattoo and what he means to me.

And so it came to me. I would forever define this chapter of my life with a tattoo. I was never that girl, brave enough to bust out of my own inhibitions and show my individuality in hair or clothes or body art.  I was never the type to do something just for the sake of displaying my creative side or walking outside the line of normalcy. This is not something I would typically do, but this had changed me. I now had something to say, someone to remember. 

I sat in the artists chair with my arm extended. He placed the drawing in the center of my wrist and pointed it down towards my fingers. I asked him to turn in the other way and point it, off center, towards my heart to which he replied, "Oh, this is personal. It must mean a lot."

Yes it does.

I wanted it to burn, to stab a thousand needles into my arm and cry in gut-wrenching affliction. Losing my baby was physically painless. I thought if I could turn this ordeal into something palpable, that it would be easier to swallow. But it didn't hurt and I didn't cry. Todd held my hand, sometimes meeting my gaze as we all talked about other things. The inked skin healed and so did my heart. 

Those 8 days happened. I was a mommy once, and the scars of both joy and heartbreak will remain with me on the inside throughout my lifetime. Remembering Nugget in a tangible way is something I needed to help me move forward in honor and in hope and to prompt me each day to live in the moment, to live hard and love deeply - to really feel.