a memory.

 Last night, I took a long bath with lavender epsom salt. I rarely take baths, and I never buy and use epsom salt for myself. But last week when I was picking up groceries, I walked down that aisle because I thought I might desire a bath soon. Because I knew what day was coming into view. So, I soaked in the tub with my ears under water so all I could hear was my heart beating.

This morning, on the 11th day of January, I got up and sat back down to read. After brushing my hair and teeth a little later, I felt a tug to look up. When I did, I saw the most beautiful sight in the mirror.

It was me.

I felt an intense urge to look away and continue on with what I was doing, but I resisted. I chose to look and behold my face, and it wasn’t long before it was wet with tears.

I looked at my quivering lips.

I looked at the lines around my mouth.

I looked at my glistening eyes.

I looked at my flushed skin.

I looked into the face of a woman who is no longer detached from her pain. Into the eyes of a woman who is no longer living outside of herself by wearing a smile that hides all she bears. Into the soul of a woman who aches more, cries more, shares more than she ever has before.

I looked at myself and felt so grateful to be loved and alive, to finally be understanding what a miracle it really is. I, also, felt so sad that it takes so much pain and suffering to understand how precious life is.

Eight years ago on this day, I was dying on the inside. Literally, dying. I was on the cusp of motherhood, and my will and my body were at odds. My will won out in the end, but I still think about that day often. I have such vivid memories of me in such a worn state from sickness, while declaring over and over again, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.” Such vivid memories of me wanting to protect everyone’s emotions from just how bad I really did feel. Such vivid memories of longing for relief, of being so worried that something was badly wrong and willing it to resolve on its own.

It was sobering to hear just a few days later just how serious and life-threatening it was, how “lucky” I was to still be alive, how many mothers have not had the same outcome. That memory still haunts me.

Some people may be tired of hearing about it by now, of how I almost died but didn’t. My story is part of me, though, and I spent too much of my life making light of myself and my circumstances, acting like it’s no big deal; I don’t do that anymore. My story isn’t any less powerful when someone moves quickly past my words or ignores them all together; learning that has been one of the most humbling and empowering lessons of my life.

This day, the 11th of January, will always be a day of full of grief for me, and I’m okay with that. I have accepted it.

Because as a movie once said so beautifully, “Grief is the price you pay for love, and it’s worth it a million times over.”

And though I look back on this day with such sorrow that it was the final full day I was ever pregnant, the final memories I have of my hands on my swollen belly, sorrow isn’t all I feel.

My memory of this day reminds me that it’s okay to feel more than one thing at a time.

That it’s okay to look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of what you see and all you’ve made it through.

And that God is good and can be trusted.