I often imagine this parallel world, one where the dead exist.
See, I have this theory. I think that we are all composed of the universe, of the trees and the stars and the ocean, and inside everyone there is this one thing, one piece of their soul, that makes them different from every other person on earth. The essence of your being, so to speak. The you inside of the universe.
So in this other world, I imagine the dead, this essence of their souls, living. They exist in a world very similar to ours, where we meet in passing, but we can never see them.
Maybe I imagine this because it brings me comfort. Maybe it's a fairytale I want to believe in because it gives me some semblance of peace.
I believe that in this other world, my loved ones exist. Not always, but sometimes.
Sometimes we happen to cross paths. When I'm riding in the car on the way home, when I'm rushing to get to work on time, when I'm in the kitchen making scrambled eggs. I can feel it, a sudden rush of energy. I whisper their names, Cam, Mia, and I wonder if perhaps, in their world, they are whispering mine as well.
It only happens for an instant. For one brief second my world catches up with theirs and there is this rush of air and all the remembering in the world is mine. It doesn't hurt, not like you might think. It's kind of peaceful.
Showing posts with label Cam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cam. Show all posts
Saturday, 28 December 2013
Saturday, 28 September 2013
The Double Life
I haven't had much time to write recently.
Life seems to be spinning so fast, and I can barely stop to catch my breath.
The world keeps turning and while my heart is still broken over the loss of my little girl, its a different kind of pain.
I mentioned her the other day, in a conversation with a woman I barely knew. She asked if I had any children and I said that I did, a daughter. She asked me her name and I said it was Mia and I didn't mention that she had died and I walked away from that conversation feeling both like a liar, for refusing to admit that my daughter was dead, and feeling comforted because for the first time I got to mention her name and talk about her the way any other proud mama would gush about their baby, and it wasn't surrounded by pain and sorrow like the conversations usually are when I bring up my daughter.
Life continues and I am learning what it means to live again and it's hard to believe that it was just over a year ago that I had her with me, that Cam and I were sitting around the table barely understanding how to love each other again.
I never thought I would be here, and when I heard those other baby loss mama's talk about how the pain never really went away but it changed forms I would laugh.
I had just buried the love of my life and my child and how dare anyone tell me that I would ever feel anything besides stabbing pain.
But I did. I do. My conversations are centered around things other than the loss of my family. I get to talk about things like love and I get to stress out about things that need to get done and try to do a load of laundry before breakfast because I forgot to do it again and I'm out of underwear. And I get to do those things and be normal and then I get to come home and see Mia's memorial shelf and see the pink notebook I keep filled with letters to them and I get to fall into bed and say "I'm doing it, my loves. I made it through this whole day without feeling so sad and I'm living life again and while I don't think of you all the time you are always with me and I will always love you."
And sometimes it feels like I'm living a double life, the one where I miss my family and grieve over them and the one I live with everyone else where I keep my personal life personal and go out for drinks with new friends I met at work who don't know my story yet and don't know about Cam and Mia.
And sometimes I feel guilty about that but mostly I just feel like I'm moving forward in my grief.
And it's hard, to feel like I'm moving on and being happy without them, but I know that they will always be with me, and I am forever changed because of having loved them.
Life seems to be spinning so fast, and I can barely stop to catch my breath.
The world keeps turning and while my heart is still broken over the loss of my little girl, its a different kind of pain.
I mentioned her the other day, in a conversation with a woman I barely knew. She asked if I had any children and I said that I did, a daughter. She asked me her name and I said it was Mia and I didn't mention that she had died and I walked away from that conversation feeling both like a liar, for refusing to admit that my daughter was dead, and feeling comforted because for the first time I got to mention her name and talk about her the way any other proud mama would gush about their baby, and it wasn't surrounded by pain and sorrow like the conversations usually are when I bring up my daughter.
Life continues and I am learning what it means to live again and it's hard to believe that it was just over a year ago that I had her with me, that Cam and I were sitting around the table barely understanding how to love each other again.
I never thought I would be here, and when I heard those other baby loss mama's talk about how the pain never really went away but it changed forms I would laugh.
I had just buried the love of my life and my child and how dare anyone tell me that I would ever feel anything besides stabbing pain.
But I did. I do. My conversations are centered around things other than the loss of my family. I get to talk about things like love and I get to stress out about things that need to get done and try to do a load of laundry before breakfast because I forgot to do it again and I'm out of underwear. And I get to do those things and be normal and then I get to come home and see Mia's memorial shelf and see the pink notebook I keep filled with letters to them and I get to fall into bed and say "I'm doing it, my loves. I made it through this whole day without feeling so sad and I'm living life again and while I don't think of you all the time you are always with me and I will always love you."
And sometimes it feels like I'm living a double life, the one where I miss my family and grieve over them and the one I live with everyone else where I keep my personal life personal and go out for drinks with new friends I met at work who don't know my story yet and don't know about Cam and Mia.
And sometimes I feel guilty about that but mostly I just feel like I'm moving forward in my grief.
And it's hard, to feel like I'm moving on and being happy without them, but I know that they will always be with me, and I am forever changed because of having loved them.
Sunday, 7 July 2013
Saying goodbye
Today was hard...
Sometimes these days come out of nowhere and they hit you over the head, unexpected like. It's easy to forget what these days feel like.
Its not like I'm hysterical or that I find it impossible to get out of bed today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to explain.
This morning I went to the bus station and said goodbye to some good friends of mine who are leaving on a trip. A trip Cam and Amelia and I were supposed to be on. But Cam is dead and Amelia is dead and I'm not going. and that sucks.
With everything in me I want to go but with everything in me I want to go under normal circumstances. I want to go with Cam and with my baby girl.
So as I said goodbye to my friends today, I stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks, not at all anticipating how hard this was going to be. Standing there with my backpack, that should have been me. I should have had Mia on my hip, her favorite blanket and pacifier in my backpack. I should be wondering about whether or not she'll sleep through most of the long bus ride. Instead I don't get to worry about any of those things and to me, today, that seems unspeakably cruel.
***
I'm leaving in a week, for a vacation to the ocean. I thought I knew where I wanted to scatter Mia's ashes but lately the idea of taking them with me and scattering them in the ocean sounds more and more like what I want to do. I'm not sure if I'll do it yet. I'm not even sure if I'll pack the little jar containing her ashes in my suitcase, squished between my sundress and my bathing suit. But I'm open to the possibility. The idea of letting go doesn't sound as unbearable as it did in those early days, 10 months ago.
***
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing. I tend to get that feeling when I write here, which is why I was avoiding it for quite some time. I thought I was ready today but as I stare at this page and everything I've written I wonder if I am. Reading it all, it makes me feel so incomplete. lacking. like a liar because I write all these extravagant things and I write thoughtfully and in the end its simple.
I'm just a girl who lost her baby.
Sometimes these days come out of nowhere and they hit you over the head, unexpected like. It's easy to forget what these days feel like.
Its not like I'm hysterical or that I find it impossible to get out of bed today, I just feel heavy. It's hard to explain.
This morning I went to the bus station and said goodbye to some good friends of mine who are leaving on a trip. A trip Cam and Amelia and I were supposed to be on. But Cam is dead and Amelia is dead and I'm not going. and that sucks.
With everything in me I want to go but with everything in me I want to go under normal circumstances. I want to go with Cam and with my baby girl.
So as I said goodbye to my friends today, I stood there with tears streaming down my cheeks, not at all anticipating how hard this was going to be. Standing there with my backpack, that should have been me. I should have had Mia on my hip, her favorite blanket and pacifier in my backpack. I should be wondering about whether or not she'll sleep through most of the long bus ride. Instead I don't get to worry about any of those things and to me, today, that seems unspeakably cruel.
***
I'm leaving in a week, for a vacation to the ocean. I thought I knew where I wanted to scatter Mia's ashes but lately the idea of taking them with me and scattering them in the ocean sounds more and more like what I want to do. I'm not sure if I'll do it yet. I'm not even sure if I'll pack the little jar containing her ashes in my suitcase, squished between my sundress and my bathing suit. But I'm open to the possibility. The idea of letting go doesn't sound as unbearable as it did in those early days, 10 months ago.
***
Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing. I tend to get that feeling when I write here, which is why I was avoiding it for quite some time. I thought I was ready today but as I stare at this page and everything I've written I wonder if I am. Reading it all, it makes me feel so incomplete. lacking. like a liar because I write all these extravagant things and I write thoughtfully and in the end its simple.
I'm just a girl who lost her baby.
Thursday, 4 July 2013
Right Where I'm at 2013 - 9 months 3 weeks and 3 days
I know this is a bit late. I know other baby loss mama's and daddy's are done this post and maybe no one even cares what I have to say anymore.
After all, it is early July and the sun is shining and melting away the remains of winter on my heart. It is a season for beaches and eating raspberries from the pail and bare feet.
And yet, when I left this blog for a time, back when I was only beginning to see signs of spring in my heart, I was asked by a dear friend of mine to return every once in a while.
So I'm making good on my promise and returning (Though no promises on how long I'll stay, Jen!)
***
It's July and even though it's sunny and flowers are popping up out of the garden in my backyard, today is not sunny. Today it is raining and windy and I spent the day in bed with a good book; a book about loss, love and two woman. One is a mother who lost her son, the other a woman whose husband left her. I can relate to both of these women. I am both of these women. My daughter is dead and my lover is gone and I am the shadows of these women.
When I started this post, preparing to title it, I wrote down 8 months. It took me a minute before I realize it's been nine months, will be ten in six days. Has it really been that long without her? How have I gotten from there (a grieving, sobbing, hysterical woman who wouldn't get up off the bedroom floor) to here (a somewhat less hysterical but still grieving woman who wanders through life but still periodically returns to the bedroom floor). I don't understand how its been this long. It feels like just yesterday and also like forever ago and I know this is cliché to say. Its supposed to feel like this, I think, its time. And yet I am still stuck in a state of disbelief.
***
I haven't scattered her ashes yet, in case you're wondering. I thought about it. I know where I want them to be. I feel more ready than I did a few months ago, when I first considered the idea. I have everything all planned out, which feels vaguely morbid. And yet something doesn't feel quite right and so her ashes continue to sit on my shelf in a little jar tied with a pretty pink ribbon.
***
I talked to her last night. In my busy life its so easy to push past it, to nod to her presence as I run past her memory, doing what needs to be done. Its easy to say, "Good girl. Good Mia. Good staying still and being quiet while Mommy gets her work done." But in the last few days the missing her has become something fierce and so I will sit and acknowledge her. So I was talking to her last night and I was asking her things like why she is here and who she was and why me.
I don't think I have all the answers yet. She doesn't seem to want to answer me and I can picture her in my head, a spicy little girl, giving me the silent treatment. But I believe she came to me for a reason: to teach me about love, and to help me find my voice, and also to help me learn to live again. Maybe its just me but I think my dead daughter saved my life.
***
It will be 10 months soon. 10! double digits! I am approaching it carefully, like I imagined I would approach her tenth birthday, with a great deal of nostalgia and wistful longing. And while I am excited for 10 months, then 11, for the first year to finally be over, I am content to sit in this single digit stage for just a little while longer.
I love you, my sweet.
***
And that's where I am today. I'm doing ok. I'm speaking my truth, even when its hard, something my daughter taught me, and her father. I'm telling her story and his story and my story, and how they all intersected, and talking about life and love and connection to groups of people. I haven't gone far yet, but I hope to. Some days, after sharing her story, I am so exhausted. I run a warm bath and step into it and think about everything. I don't feel worthy of love, of her story, of his story, of my story. And even if I say it a million times it won't bring back my loves. Their legacy isn't in my story, but in me. I am the monument of their lives. And so I will live and love and speak for them. They are woven into the fabric of my being and I have to trust that.
There's dinner to be made tonight and laundry to be done and a house to be cleaned for my brother's birthday tomorrow. But I think I'll sit here for just a moment longer and read about a mother who lost her son and a woman who lost her lover, and find myself woven into the pattern of them.
We are all connected.
After all, it is early July and the sun is shining and melting away the remains of winter on my heart. It is a season for beaches and eating raspberries from the pail and bare feet.
And yet, when I left this blog for a time, back when I was only beginning to see signs of spring in my heart, I was asked by a dear friend of mine to return every once in a while.
So I'm making good on my promise and returning (Though no promises on how long I'll stay, Jen!)
***
It's July and even though it's sunny and flowers are popping up out of the garden in my backyard, today is not sunny. Today it is raining and windy and I spent the day in bed with a good book; a book about loss, love and two woman. One is a mother who lost her son, the other a woman whose husband left her. I can relate to both of these women. I am both of these women. My daughter is dead and my lover is gone and I am the shadows of these women.
When I started this post, preparing to title it, I wrote down 8 months. It took me a minute before I realize it's been nine months, will be ten in six days. Has it really been that long without her? How have I gotten from there (a grieving, sobbing, hysterical woman who wouldn't get up off the bedroom floor) to here (a somewhat less hysterical but still grieving woman who wanders through life but still periodically returns to the bedroom floor). I don't understand how its been this long. It feels like just yesterday and also like forever ago and I know this is cliché to say. Its supposed to feel like this, I think, its time. And yet I am still stuck in a state of disbelief.
***
I haven't scattered her ashes yet, in case you're wondering. I thought about it. I know where I want them to be. I feel more ready than I did a few months ago, when I first considered the idea. I have everything all planned out, which feels vaguely morbid. And yet something doesn't feel quite right and so her ashes continue to sit on my shelf in a little jar tied with a pretty pink ribbon.
***
I talked to her last night. In my busy life its so easy to push past it, to nod to her presence as I run past her memory, doing what needs to be done. Its easy to say, "Good girl. Good Mia. Good staying still and being quiet while Mommy gets her work done." But in the last few days the missing her has become something fierce and so I will sit and acknowledge her. So I was talking to her last night and I was asking her things like why she is here and who she was and why me.
I don't think I have all the answers yet. She doesn't seem to want to answer me and I can picture her in my head, a spicy little girl, giving me the silent treatment. But I believe she came to me for a reason: to teach me about love, and to help me find my voice, and also to help me learn to live again. Maybe its just me but I think my dead daughter saved my life.
***
It will be 10 months soon. 10! double digits! I am approaching it carefully, like I imagined I would approach her tenth birthday, with a great deal of nostalgia and wistful longing. And while I am excited for 10 months, then 11, for the first year to finally be over, I am content to sit in this single digit stage for just a little while longer.
I love you, my sweet.
***
And that's where I am today. I'm doing ok. I'm speaking my truth, even when its hard, something my daughter taught me, and her father. I'm telling her story and his story and my story, and how they all intersected, and talking about life and love and connection to groups of people. I haven't gone far yet, but I hope to. Some days, after sharing her story, I am so exhausted. I run a warm bath and step into it and think about everything. I don't feel worthy of love, of her story, of his story, of my story. And even if I say it a million times it won't bring back my loves. Their legacy isn't in my story, but in me. I am the monument of their lives. And so I will live and love and speak for them. They are woven into the fabric of my being and I have to trust that.
There's dinner to be made tonight and laundry to be done and a house to be cleaned for my brother's birthday tomorrow. But I think I'll sit here for just a moment longer and read about a mother who lost her son and a woman who lost her lover, and find myself woven into the pattern of them.
We are all connected.
Monday, 3 June 2013
Living my truth
I haven't written here in days, weeks, maybe even months.
I find I don't know what to say. As I opened up this little blog for the first time in a long time today, I felt the obligation to write something.
Not something about my dead baby, or my dead baby's dead daddy, but about my life.
My life, the one that's not dead.
My life is good. It's filled with good, happy things. There's someone with whom I think I could possibly be in love with (But we're taking it VERY slow). I'm considering maybe scattering Mia's ashes at the end of this month, when I take a trip with my family up the mountain. Right after she died, I knew that was the place I wanted her ashes scattered and as the time approaches I'm not sure if I'm ready to let go yet, but we'll see.
My life is good. I'm good.
I don't know how often I'll be poking around this little space anymore. As I'm walking into my life (The one where, despite all odds, I am very much alive) I am learning to live in my truth. My truth is this: my baby died. Her father died. And I survived this.
And I carry this truth with me, out into the world, and as I carry it I find myself needing this space less and less.
So this is goodbye, for now. Hopefully, Lord willing, I'll be back again real soon.
Until then, know I am thinking about all of you, and sending my love
Go and live your truth
I find I don't know what to say. As I opened up this little blog for the first time in a long time today, I felt the obligation to write something.
Not something about my dead baby, or my dead baby's dead daddy, but about my life.
My life, the one that's not dead.
My life is good. It's filled with good, happy things. There's someone with whom I think I could possibly be in love with (But we're taking it VERY slow). I'm considering maybe scattering Mia's ashes at the end of this month, when I take a trip with my family up the mountain. Right after she died, I knew that was the place I wanted her ashes scattered and as the time approaches I'm not sure if I'm ready to let go yet, but we'll see.
My life is good. I'm good.
I don't know how often I'll be poking around this little space anymore. As I'm walking into my life (The one where, despite all odds, I am very much alive) I am learning to live in my truth. My truth is this: my baby died. Her father died. And I survived this.
And I carry this truth with me, out into the world, and as I carry it I find myself needing this space less and less.
So this is goodbye, for now. Hopefully, Lord willing, I'll be back again real soon.
Until then, know I am thinking about all of you, and sending my love
Go and live your truth
Thursday, 18 April 2013
Hatred and Loneliness
Someone I know is having a baby. I woke up one morning, checked social media, and saw status updates from my friends about someone having died, a little one having passed on. Immediately my breath got stuck in my throat. Had something happened to my friend's baby?
It turns out there was another little boy in our community who drown.
I hate that I live in a world where babies die.
***
I came home from work today, exhausted. I barely made it into the house before I was hit with a wave of nausea. I stumbled to the couch and lay there, sipping on water and chewing crackers until the urge to vomit passed. But as I was lying there, I thought about how much it felt like the morning sickness I'd had with Mia. All of a sudden I was bawling on the couch, gagging over a bucket, screaming for my little girl. Because this moment, being so sick I could barely move, it reminded me of her.
I hate that the one thing that reminds me of her is sickness.
***
I got an email today from an old friend of mine. I haven't seen him since pre pregnancy, pre Mia, pre becoming a dead baby mama. So he sent me this nice, chatty email apologising for the lack of communication, asking how I was and how my Easter was.
What do I say to him?
Do I tell him about Mia? If I did, would that make me seem like I wanted pity? How would my friend respond to hearing about my dead baby? When he asked how I was, did he really want to know how I was or did he just want a glossed over, 'fine' answer?
Do I not mention Mia? Would not mentioning her feel like lying betrayal? I could just say I'm fine, but that, of course, would be a lie, but how do you tell someone you doesn't even know you were pregnant, and had a stillbirth, that life sucks so much some days I can't even get out of bed without sounding like a suicidal nut case?
I hate that I have to think about these things now.
***
I'm numbing the pain with too much to drink, not enough to eat and countless hours spent in front of the TV watching TV shows on DVD. It's not a permanent fix, I know that, but I don't know what else to do right now. Feeling hurts too much...
On Monday, I had a rather upsetting conversation with my friend. She basically told me that losing Mia was preventable (It wasn't, the doctors have assured me, there was nothing Cam nor I did that caused her medical conditions and, ultimately, her death, though that doesn't stop the guilt from washing over me) and she told me if I wanted to have any chance at a future and becoming a powerful, strong, inspiring woman I needed to get over my daughter's death.
What the hell?!?!
I wish I would have been witty that day, coming back with a sharp, sarcastic remark.
Instead I went home, locked myself in my room and cried. I got snot all over my pillow and my eyes were red and puffy and my hair was messy from raking my hands through it as I screamed and I looked more like a zombie and less like an actual human.
I hate that I have to deal with people like this, and especially hearing this stuff come from people I thought supported me and were there for me.
I hate that everything I feel hurts and I just want to run away from my life
I hate that this is my life
If you wanna leave a comment in response to my baby loss angst and venting, tell me what you would do in regards to my friend who sent me the email. Tell me the ways you numb yourself (or if you do...), tell me what you would have said to this 'friend' of mine who said those rude things about my daughters death (in case I decide to send her a strongly worded email). Tell me about you, and how you've been doing. What makes you miss your babies? What makes you burn up with anger and hatred?
Or just talk to me... cause I've been feeling a little lonely now that I'm here all by myself.
It turns out there was another little boy in our community who drown.
I hate that I live in a world where babies die.
***
I came home from work today, exhausted. I barely made it into the house before I was hit with a wave of nausea. I stumbled to the couch and lay there, sipping on water and chewing crackers until the urge to vomit passed. But as I was lying there, I thought about how much it felt like the morning sickness I'd had with Mia. All of a sudden I was bawling on the couch, gagging over a bucket, screaming for my little girl. Because this moment, being so sick I could barely move, it reminded me of her.
I hate that the one thing that reminds me of her is sickness.
***
I got an email today from an old friend of mine. I haven't seen him since pre pregnancy, pre Mia, pre becoming a dead baby mama. So he sent me this nice, chatty email apologising for the lack of communication, asking how I was and how my Easter was.
What do I say to him?
Do I tell him about Mia? If I did, would that make me seem like I wanted pity? How would my friend respond to hearing about my dead baby? When he asked how I was, did he really want to know how I was or did he just want a glossed over, 'fine' answer?
Do I not mention Mia? Would not mentioning her feel like lying betrayal? I could just say I'm fine, but that, of course, would be a lie, but how do you tell someone you doesn't even know you were pregnant, and had a stillbirth, that life sucks so much some days I can't even get out of bed without sounding like a suicidal nut case?
I hate that I have to think about these things now.
***
I'm numbing the pain with too much to drink, not enough to eat and countless hours spent in front of the TV watching TV shows on DVD. It's not a permanent fix, I know that, but I don't know what else to do right now. Feeling hurts too much...
On Monday, I had a rather upsetting conversation with my friend. She basically told me that losing Mia was preventable (It wasn't, the doctors have assured me, there was nothing Cam nor I did that caused her medical conditions and, ultimately, her death, though that doesn't stop the guilt from washing over me) and she told me if I wanted to have any chance at a future and becoming a powerful, strong, inspiring woman I needed to get over my daughter's death.
What the hell?!?!
I wish I would have been witty that day, coming back with a sharp, sarcastic remark.
Instead I went home, locked myself in my room and cried. I got snot all over my pillow and my eyes were red and puffy and my hair was messy from raking my hands through it as I screamed and I looked more like a zombie and less like an actual human.
I hate that I have to deal with people like this, and especially hearing this stuff come from people I thought supported me and were there for me.
I hate that everything I feel hurts and I just want to run away from my life
I hate that this is my life
If you wanna leave a comment in response to my baby loss angst and venting, tell me what you would do in regards to my friend who sent me the email. Tell me the ways you numb yourself (or if you do...), tell me what you would have said to this 'friend' of mine who said those rude things about my daughters death (in case I decide to send her a strongly worded email). Tell me about you, and how you've been doing. What makes you miss your babies? What makes you burn up with anger and hatred?
Or just talk to me... cause I've been feeling a little lonely now that I'm here all by myself.
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
7 Months
I imagine she would look like me, with blonde curls and wide eyes full of curiosity.
She would have my tender heart and her daddy's tough spirit. She would be reckless and dangerous, just like her father, which would give her mother a heart attack.
She would have the best giggle, and her smile would light up a room.
She would be a daddy's girl, with a soft spot for her mama.
She would be stubborn and opinionated but with a charm that got her out of any trouble, just like her daddy had.
She would be able to melt my heart.
She would be my world.
Cam would walk with her when she cried, colicky during the night, letting me sleep between feedings. His eyes would be bloodshot when I found him in the morning, but she would be sleeping on his chest, and he would have a smile on his face.
We would live in a little trailer, barely scraping by, but living off of love.
I can't imagine my life being more complete than it would be if I was with them.
But here's the thing, I'm not with them. For 7 long months I haven't been waking up for midnight feedings or holding our girl or watching her grow up in front of my eyes and seeing she has a great dislike for green beans but loves mixed berries. My acts of parenting have been reduced to these: sobbing into my pillow in the wee hours of the morning, her ashes sitting on my bookshelf. I held her once (for a few minutes) and I dressed her (In an outfit that was much too big for her tiny body, as we never expected her to be born so small) and we burned her (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) and I cried (all I know of her is grief)
And here's the crazy thing, I wouldn't take any of it back. I wouldn't trade any of the tears or the pain because those few moments I got with her (that didn't seem long enough), they were magical.
It's 7 months out and this time around I felt like my body remembered before my mind did. Usually it's the other way around. Usually this date is marked on my calendar, the only day unscheduled, and when the day comes I sit for it, upright, tall, perfect posture, taking a warrior position as if I can fight against the emotional pain that comes along with this day.
I grew tired and cried when I was in the shower or in bed or watching TV or just sitting on the couch. I felt like I was walking around with the flu, though I'm not sick.
And then today came...
My first anniversary alone...
I don't know how this is supposed to work... I'm sitting here, chewing on my lip, trying to decide what to do (I've been terribly indecisive as well, standing in front of the open fridge for nearly half an hour before deciding I want take out), wondering how I am supposed to deal with this day.
I'm not there to hold my girl or kiss her face or watch her grow up.
He's not here to share it with me, to hold me while I cry, to remember her too
So I do the only thing I know how to do
I let the tears fall (Grief is all I have left of them) and I pull her ashes out from behind the stack of books I'd purposefully set there so I didn't have to look at them every day and remember what I lost, and I turn on some music and order that takeout and turn off the phone
And then I fall onto my bed and have a good cry
I miss you, sweet Mia girl. I love you. Happy 7 month birthday
She would have my tender heart and her daddy's tough spirit. She would be reckless and dangerous, just like her father, which would give her mother a heart attack.
She would have the best giggle, and her smile would light up a room.
She would be a daddy's girl, with a soft spot for her mama.
She would be stubborn and opinionated but with a charm that got her out of any trouble, just like her daddy had.
She would be able to melt my heart.
She would be my world.
Cam would walk with her when she cried, colicky during the night, letting me sleep between feedings. His eyes would be bloodshot when I found him in the morning, but she would be sleeping on his chest, and he would have a smile on his face.
We would live in a little trailer, barely scraping by, but living off of love.
I can't imagine my life being more complete than it would be if I was with them.
But here's the thing, I'm not with them. For 7 long months I haven't been waking up for midnight feedings or holding our girl or watching her grow up in front of my eyes and seeing she has a great dislike for green beans but loves mixed berries. My acts of parenting have been reduced to these: sobbing into my pillow in the wee hours of the morning, her ashes sitting on my bookshelf. I held her once (for a few minutes) and I dressed her (In an outfit that was much too big for her tiny body, as we never expected her to be born so small) and we burned her (ashes to ashes, dust to dust) and I cried (all I know of her is grief)
And here's the crazy thing, I wouldn't take any of it back. I wouldn't trade any of the tears or the pain because those few moments I got with her (that didn't seem long enough), they were magical.
It's 7 months out and this time around I felt like my body remembered before my mind did. Usually it's the other way around. Usually this date is marked on my calendar, the only day unscheduled, and when the day comes I sit for it, upright, tall, perfect posture, taking a warrior position as if I can fight against the emotional pain that comes along with this day.
I grew tired and cried when I was in the shower or in bed or watching TV or just sitting on the couch. I felt like I was walking around with the flu, though I'm not sick.
And then today came...
My first anniversary alone...
I don't know how this is supposed to work... I'm sitting here, chewing on my lip, trying to decide what to do (I've been terribly indecisive as well, standing in front of the open fridge for nearly half an hour before deciding I want take out), wondering how I am supposed to deal with this day.
I'm not there to hold my girl or kiss her face or watch her grow up.
He's not here to share it with me, to hold me while I cry, to remember her too
So I do the only thing I know how to do
I let the tears fall (Grief is all I have left of them) and I pull her ashes out from behind the stack of books I'd purposefully set there so I didn't have to look at them every day and remember what I lost, and I turn on some music and order that takeout and turn off the phone
And then I fall onto my bed and have a good cry
I miss you, sweet Mia girl. I love you. Happy 7 month birthday
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