I haven't written in a while
Because life is busy. I spent the summer traveling. I returned to the place where my sweet daughter's ashes are scattered, and I had a sense of peace knowing that she is always a part of me and I do not have to frantically work to remember her.
This knowledge has been following me lately
Sometimes she arrives as I am hunched over at the supper table
Sometimes her quiet voice speaks to me as I am running late for my morning class
Or in the silent hours of my work day right before closing, when everything is still and my heart is full
And there are days when I can go almost all day without actively thinking and remembering. As I crawl into bed at night, I sink into the soft embrace of remembering my sweet baby. But the pain doesn't sting like it used to, not always. More often than not it is a soft, gentle ache, a remembering of what should have been but isn't.
She was never mine to keep
She was always going to journey home
Her second birthday came and went, and it's been almost a month now since that day.
I can scarcely believe that my baby would be 2. If she had lived I imagine a birthday cake with pink frosting and presents. I wonder how many words she would know, if she would be fearless or timid.
I guess more than anything I want to write here to remember.
I wanted to write here again because my life is changing, and I'm not the same broken new mama I was 2 years ago, who had lost everything
Yes, I still miss my girl. I miss the life I could have had.
But I think 2 years, for me, has brought a sense of understanding. She had to go, for reasons I'll never be able to understand. Her brief life forever shaped me, as a person and a mother. She is always a part of me, and because of her I am able to experience this life more fully and deeply.
I feel like I don't have to write it out anymore, have to repeat my grief and make it known. It's something small, something I hold close to me. It's personal and beautiful and mine.
So I may still come to this corner of the woods every once in a while, to write and reflect and connect with you other baby loss mama's and daddies.
I may also spend my time going on spontaneous adventures and working the closing shift and taking pictures and writing poetry, which is ok too
Either way, I nod my head to you, as you sit over there in your grief and I stand here in mine.
Life has a funny way of changing when you least expect it. The thing you once thought was impossible has happened.
My heart is more full then I ever thought possible on that day 2 years ago when my baby died
And even still, there is a tiny piece missing, the size of her
I am just learning to cover that hole with so much love, to make the aching just a little easier
Showing posts with label My truth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My truth. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 October 2014
Saturday, 28 December 2013
When worlds collide
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.
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.
Sunday, 15 December 2013
Parallel Universe
I watched the snow fall from the hospital window. I sat in a chair overlooking the city beside my mother, who had come in to get some tests done.
She was being tested for cancer. It runs in the family. My grandmother died from cancer, my aunt died from cancer, my cousin died from cancer.
It seems death runs in our family, like a winding ribbon or a vein, tying it all together.
My heart felt heavy as I thought of how things should be.
Sometimes, in my head, I live in this parallel universe. One where my baby didn't die and my love didn't die and my mother isn't being scanned for cancer and where I'm not sitting in a hospital in December, days before Christmas, thinking the one thing that links our family is death.
I drink my tea and watch the thick snowflakes and the dim glow coming from the bright lights and I hear her voice.
"Hi Mama."
I look around. She's not here. I know she's not here. She's dead.
"Everything will be ok, mama."
They are the only words I hear from her, sweet daughter of mine.
Sometimes, in the midst of a snowstorm or late at night, she whispers to me. I can feel her hands on my face, her breath on my neck.
It's only for a moment, only a brief second in this parallel universe where my daughter still exists, where she is learning to whisper my name, when her father is just in the other room instead of buried under the frosty ground.
But a minute is enough, enough to keep me pushing forward.
"I hear you baby," I whisper into my tea, "I love you."
She was being tested for cancer. It runs in the family. My grandmother died from cancer, my aunt died from cancer, my cousin died from cancer.
It seems death runs in our family, like a winding ribbon or a vein, tying it all together.
My heart felt heavy as I thought of how things should be.
Sometimes, in my head, I live in this parallel universe. One where my baby didn't die and my love didn't die and my mother isn't being scanned for cancer and where I'm not sitting in a hospital in December, days before Christmas, thinking the one thing that links our family is death.
I drink my tea and watch the thick snowflakes and the dim glow coming from the bright lights and I hear her voice.
"Hi Mama."
I look around. She's not here. I know she's not here. She's dead.
"Everything will be ok, mama."
They are the only words I hear from her, sweet daughter of mine.
Sometimes, in the midst of a snowstorm or late at night, she whispers to me. I can feel her hands on my face, her breath on my neck.
It's only for a moment, only a brief second in this parallel universe where my daughter still exists, where she is learning to whisper my name, when her father is just in the other room instead of buried under the frosty ground.
But a minute is enough, enough to keep me pushing forward.
"I hear you baby," I whisper into my tea, "I love you."
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
Sunday, 28 April 2013
My Girl
I was watching My Girl in the hospital.
I was a strange mix between being tired and being emotional.
They'd just given me the medicine to start my contractions (so I could give birth to my dead daughter) and I was convinced it wasn't going to work (In that moment, as in most of my pregnancy after I found out Mia was sick and would die, I just wanted it to be over with.)
"You need to give me more," I cried to the nurse, unsure of why I was crying. I was wrapped up in some of those blankets from the warmers. I had an IV in my left arm, medicine that was supposed to help me give birth to my dead daughter flowing into me.
"You're fine," The nurse assured me, "Just try to relax, darling. Labor will start before you know it."
But I wasn't convinced. I was hysterical. More, I needed more.
I just wanted her out, just wanted this nightmare to be over. I was terrified of the idea that the medicine meant to induce labor wouldn't work.
I kept trying to get up out of bed and go somewhere (I'm not really sure where). I kept asking for more medicine, kept hysterically sobbing and telling the nurse it wasn't going to work.
In the end, I did end up needing more medicine.
In the end, I got an epidural. I pushed and screamed and cried, the warm blanket that was quickly losing its heat wrapped under me, stuck to my back with sweat.
And there she was, so tiny, so fragile, so perfect.
This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want a dead baby. In that moment I would have done anything to put her back inside me, where she belonged, where she was safe and alive.
All the while the closing song from My Girl played from the TV screen in the corner of the hospital room. I don't even know how it was still on, but it was.
My Girl, My Girl, My Girl.
I was a strange mix between being tired and being emotional.
They'd just given me the medicine to start my contractions (so I could give birth to my dead daughter) and I was convinced it wasn't going to work (In that moment, as in most of my pregnancy after I found out Mia was sick and would die, I just wanted it to be over with.)
"You need to give me more," I cried to the nurse, unsure of why I was crying. I was wrapped up in some of those blankets from the warmers. I had an IV in my left arm, medicine that was supposed to help me give birth to my dead daughter flowing into me.
"You're fine," The nurse assured me, "Just try to relax, darling. Labor will start before you know it."
But I wasn't convinced. I was hysterical. More, I needed more.
I just wanted her out, just wanted this nightmare to be over. I was terrified of the idea that the medicine meant to induce labor wouldn't work.
I kept trying to get up out of bed and go somewhere (I'm not really sure where). I kept asking for more medicine, kept hysterically sobbing and telling the nurse it wasn't going to work.
In the end, I did end up needing more medicine.
In the end, I got an epidural. I pushed and screamed and cried, the warm blanket that was quickly losing its heat wrapped under me, stuck to my back with sweat.
And there she was, so tiny, so fragile, so perfect.
This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want a dead baby. In that moment I would have done anything to put her back inside me, where she belonged, where she was safe and alive.
All the while the closing song from My Girl played from the TV screen in the corner of the hospital room. I don't even know how it was still on, but it was.
My Girl, My Girl, My Girl.
Saturday, 22 December 2012
Part One - D-day
I started this little journal file on my computer. It's password protected, and just started out as a place to write my thoughts out. I expected it to be a couple hundred words - her birth story and nothing more. But it's turning into 10,000 words and instead of just her birth story it has become my story with her, and a place where I talk and write about her and cry and get angry and grieve.
I'm not feeling very wordy this late December night. The room is hot and my palms are sweaty and I cut my thumb today while trying to cut some veggies for dinner because I wasn't paying attention.
So I thought I'd share a little bit of what I've been writing over in that online journal - her birth story, her death story, and mine too.
...
...
I'm not feeling very wordy this late December night. The room is hot and my palms are sweaty and I cut my thumb today while trying to cut some veggies for dinner because I wasn't paying attention.
So I thought I'd share a little bit of what I've been writing over in that online journal - her birth story, her death story, and mine too.
...
...
It was September 10. I wasn't prepared for what was going to happen. The night before the appointment where I would find out she was dead I went out for dinner with a friend of mine. My mom and I camped out in a hotel room and I watched the premiere of Breaking Amish and slept under crisp white sheets. It wasn't a remarkable night, except that I wasn't nervous, or scared. I was expecting to go home with the news, "Just wait. It will happen when it's time. Everything is fine."
We got to the hospital and we were late and I filled out forms and waited for the doctor. I rested my hand on my growing belly and glanced around the room at mother's with babies and pregnant mama's and pictures of newborn babies that covered the walls.
The doctor called me in and I rose and followed him to this little tiny room and sat on the table and we talked and then he did an ultrasound. After a few minutes I was allowed to sit back up. Something was wrong.
I wrapped my arms around my stomach and wanted nothing more then to run. I didn't want to hear whatever news was going to come out of his mouth. I wanted to get out of this room, to put on my shoes and run waddle out the door.
He told me my baby girl was dead. And I sat there, numb.
Everything after that became a blur and I barely remember being taken to another room and the phone calls that were made to tell everyone that my baby was dead and we ate lunch at this little cafe and I tried to believe everything was fine. We would go home now and nothing would have changed.
But everything did change. I pushed and I screamed and I cried and people kept telling me I was doing great and all I wanted to do was scream at them. I kept thinking, "I can't do this!" And then something inside of me said, "Do this for her."
At 11:04am on September 10, Amelia Mae was born.
Thursday, 20 December 2012
My Truth
I've debated whether or not i should post this here. I've gone back and forth in my head, trying to decide the consequences of what might happen if I allowed myself to whisper the truth.
On one hand there's the fact that the few people who read my blog may not understand. You might be angry, or disappointed in me. Trust me, if you feels these things about me chances are I am already feeling them in regards to myself.
But I can't just ignore the real story and I can't just stop writing and so I must shove my pride into the back closet, place duct tape around it's mouth and begin to tell my story.
I've hinted at it before, and I'll say it again, I'm young. If you want to know how young, I'll tell you. I'm 16.
My daughter, Mia, was stillborn on September 10. This is true.
I'm not married. I'm not a stepmother.
And writing this all I am already sitting here fearing the criticism I might recieve. I am fearing being told that by lying about my story I am shaming the baby loss community, even though my baby died.
I thought maybe, by pretending to be someone I'm not, my loss would be validated more.
And even though by writing all of this maybe I am being that 16 year old girl and that's showing but mostly I hope it shows maturity.
I apologize to everyone I may have hurt in pretending. I hope you can find it in your heart's to forgive me.
In the end I would rather be hated for who I am than accepted for who I'm not.
Know I deeply care about every single person I have met in this baby loss community, who has welcomed me with open arms. I feel loved here, which is part of the reason I am telling my truth.
There's so many other things I want to say, but I'm not going to tag them onto the end of this post. Maybe someday I'll write them out here - if anyone decides to keep reading.
Again, I'm sorry, and I am so thankful for the chance to share my story, and the memory of my sweet girl with all of you
Emily
On one hand there's the fact that the few people who read my blog may not understand. You might be angry, or disappointed in me. Trust me, if you feels these things about me chances are I am already feeling them in regards to myself.
But I can't just ignore the real story and I can't just stop writing and so I must shove my pride into the back closet, place duct tape around it's mouth and begin to tell my story.
I've hinted at it before, and I'll say it again, I'm young. If you want to know how young, I'll tell you. I'm 16.
My daughter, Mia, was stillborn on September 10. This is true.
I'm not married. I'm not a stepmother.
And writing this all I am already sitting here fearing the criticism I might recieve. I am fearing being told that by lying about my story I am shaming the baby loss community, even though my baby died.
I thought maybe, by pretending to be someone I'm not, my loss would be validated more.
And even though by writing all of this maybe I am being that 16 year old girl and that's showing but mostly I hope it shows maturity.
I apologize to everyone I may have hurt in pretending. I hope you can find it in your heart's to forgive me.
In the end I would rather be hated for who I am than accepted for who I'm not.
Know I deeply care about every single person I have met in this baby loss community, who has welcomed me with open arms. I feel loved here, which is part of the reason I am telling my truth.
There's so many other things I want to say, but I'm not going to tag them onto the end of this post. Maybe someday I'll write them out here - if anyone decides to keep reading.
Again, I'm sorry, and I am so thankful for the chance to share my story, and the memory of my sweet girl with all of you
Emily
Friday, 30 November 2012
Coming and Going
I wasn't going to write here anymore.
I made the crazy decision one morning while brushing my hair and pondered it some more while making breakfast for myself and drinking coffee and while i did the grocery shopping and as the silence wrapped it's way around my evening.
I wasn't going to write here anymore.
I made the decision that I was going to let go. I was going to be super woman, I was going to never speak the name of my daughter again.
I was a little delusional and crazy that day. it was also the day I wanted to get her ashes out of my house so much that I set her little jar of ashes on my back porch.
They are now back inside my house, by the way, back on my bookshelf.
I just wanted to get rid of her. I know that sounds cruel but I can't think of a better way to put it. I wanted to do some spring cleaning in my heart even though it's the end of November and I wanted to brush out all the cobwebs that have been there since she died and I wanted to think of her death not so much as her death.
I wanted to not be haunted by memories of my dead daughter.
As I'm sitting here now a lot has changed. Obviously, because I swore I wasn't going to write here anymore and I wasn't going to talk to any other baby loss mama's and I wasn't going to surround myself with stifling sadness.
I feel better. I spent time talking to friends who love me and praying and journaling and I did crazy, spontaneous things like going to the zoo when it was so cold I could see my breath and my cheeks turned pink, or dying my hair back to blonde - which was the color it was when Mia died - and making the effort to reconnect with old friends.
A lot has changed, and now I feel my heart whispering to me, "You can never let her go."
She's there when I look in the mirror every morning and she's there everytime I take a painful breath. Even when I didn't want to acknowledge her or my loss, she was there.
I don't know what this means for me or my little blog.
I'm not who I thought I was. She's not who I thought she was either.
this whole come back was actually inspired by Angie's post I don't know if that's what she meant for someone to get out of reading her post, but that's what i got.
thank you, Angie.
I made the crazy decision one morning while brushing my hair and pondered it some more while making breakfast for myself and drinking coffee and while i did the grocery shopping and as the silence wrapped it's way around my evening.
I wasn't going to write here anymore.
I made the decision that I was going to let go. I was going to be super woman, I was going to never speak the name of my daughter again.
I was a little delusional and crazy that day. it was also the day I wanted to get her ashes out of my house so much that I set her little jar of ashes on my back porch.
They are now back inside my house, by the way, back on my bookshelf.
I just wanted to get rid of her. I know that sounds cruel but I can't think of a better way to put it. I wanted to do some spring cleaning in my heart even though it's the end of November and I wanted to brush out all the cobwebs that have been there since she died and I wanted to think of her death not so much as her death.
I wanted to not be haunted by memories of my dead daughter.
As I'm sitting here now a lot has changed. Obviously, because I swore I wasn't going to write here anymore and I wasn't going to talk to any other baby loss mama's and I wasn't going to surround myself with stifling sadness.
I feel better. I spent time talking to friends who love me and praying and journaling and I did crazy, spontaneous things like going to the zoo when it was so cold I could see my breath and my cheeks turned pink, or dying my hair back to blonde - which was the color it was when Mia died - and making the effort to reconnect with old friends.
A lot has changed, and now I feel my heart whispering to me, "You can never let her go."
She's there when I look in the mirror every morning and she's there everytime I take a painful breath. Even when I didn't want to acknowledge her or my loss, she was there.
I don't know what this means for me or my little blog.
I'm not who I thought I was. She's not who I thought she was either.
this whole come back was actually inspired by Angie's post I don't know if that's what she meant for someone to get out of reading her post, but that's what i got.
thank you, Angie.
Thursday, 11 October 2012
My Truth
I was planning on telling more of her story tonight - my sweet Mia - my Amelia Mae (Yes, her full name is Amelia Mae, but we call her Mia for short.)
Last night, on the one month anniversary, I wasn't planning on writing a letter, or lighting a candle. but I did. As I wrote in my journal, I began to write a letter to the one who will never be. I told her what I can remember about the day she was born. I started the letter out with the words, "I wish I had more stories to tell." Oh how I wish I had more stories to tell, that I had payed attention to every tiny detail when I was pregnant with her. Instead, I shrugged it off, assuring myself I would have plenty of time to enjoy this when she was born. I was sick during my pregnancy - some days unable to get up out of bed. I was miserable. I was going to enjoy it when she was born. Oh but how I wish I had taken more time to remember when she was alive, safe inside of me. oh how I wish...
But that wasn't why I was going to write here tonight. Tonight anyway, I am not going to share the story of my daughter's birth. Maybe one day...
The last few days, I've been thinking a lot about my truth. I've been reading many blogs, from other baby loss mama's, finding comfort in the words they wrote and in knowing they are steps ahead of me, that they made it through these dark days too.
Every time I try to whisper her name out loud, my brain jumps in, "Liar! She wasn't real!"
I can't silence this awful voice as it hisses at me.
Over and over, every time this voice speaks in my head, I am finding myself whispering these words, "She was real to me. I love her, I miss her. She was my truth."
And she was my truth.
My truth is this: I am young. I am not an experienced mama, I don't have any other children. And I don't know why i feel as if that is impotent, but tonight it is. I was a young mama, but I had no doubt in my mind what I wanted. I wanted her. From the moment I found out, I dreamt of the day of her birth. I imagined the joy I would feel as I held her for the first time, the rosy pink babe, the gleeful mama. I never imagined I would lose her, that instead of a crying baby, I would give birth to a dead one.
Maybe this isn't making any sense tonight. I just wanted to share a little bit of my truth, for you to know a little bit about who I am.
Last night, on the one month anniversary, I wasn't planning on writing a letter, or lighting a candle. but I did. As I wrote in my journal, I began to write a letter to the one who will never be. I told her what I can remember about the day she was born. I started the letter out with the words, "I wish I had more stories to tell." Oh how I wish I had more stories to tell, that I had payed attention to every tiny detail when I was pregnant with her. Instead, I shrugged it off, assuring myself I would have plenty of time to enjoy this when she was born. I was sick during my pregnancy - some days unable to get up out of bed. I was miserable. I was going to enjoy it when she was born. Oh but how I wish I had taken more time to remember when she was alive, safe inside of me. oh how I wish...
But that wasn't why I was going to write here tonight. Tonight anyway, I am not going to share the story of my daughter's birth. Maybe one day...
The last few days, I've been thinking a lot about my truth. I've been reading many blogs, from other baby loss mama's, finding comfort in the words they wrote and in knowing they are steps ahead of me, that they made it through these dark days too.
Every time I try to whisper her name out loud, my brain jumps in, "Liar! She wasn't real!"
I can't silence this awful voice as it hisses at me.
Over and over, every time this voice speaks in my head, I am finding myself whispering these words, "She was real to me. I love her, I miss her. She was my truth."
And she was my truth.
My truth is this: I am young. I am not an experienced mama, I don't have any other children. And I don't know why i feel as if that is impotent, but tonight it is. I was a young mama, but I had no doubt in my mind what I wanted. I wanted her. From the moment I found out, I dreamt of the day of her birth. I imagined the joy I would feel as I held her for the first time, the rosy pink babe, the gleeful mama. I never imagined I would lose her, that instead of a crying baby, I would give birth to a dead one.
Maybe this isn't making any sense tonight. I just wanted to share a little bit of my truth, for you to know a little bit about who I am.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)