Seven seven seventeen.

My final full moon as a San Diego resident.

At least for the time being. Who knows what the future will bring?!

But the next time the moon is this bright in the sky, I’ll be sleeping on the other side of the country. Far away from home. Trying my best to make a new home in a new city, at a new school.

One year ago, I was up late writing letters to my kids. All four of them. For whatever reason, I had this ominous feeling about the surgery I was facing the next day, the surgery that would remove my deceased fourth child from my womb, resulting in a myriad of frightening complications that would leave me in a medically induced coma for hours. The surgery from which I’ve yet to fully physically recover, that surgery.

Call it a premonition, or maybe superstition, or maybe plain old anxiety, but I definitely felt as though something was about to go terribly wrong. And it did. And it has been, terribly wrong, ever since.

Nothing has stuck. One bad hand after the next, more obstacles to overcome, more loss, more sadness, more reasons to give up.

More reasons to keep on going.

When we moved from our “old house” to our “new house, blue house”, I thought we had our work cut out for us.

That move is nothing compared to what we’re looking at presently. Trying to relocate a family across the country isn’t cheap! Or without its fair share of logistical complications. And I’m not even talking about packing, or even unpacking. That is in addition to all the other details that must be coordinated to pull off something as elaborate as the move we are about to make.

Do I know what I’m doing? Not really. Does what I’m doing feel right? Absolutely.

And that’s enough for me!

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