I've had so many people tell me how much they admire me for being so strong. How I'm amazing, how they would never be able to handle a tragedy like this as well as I am.
Let's talk about that.
I don't feel amazing. I don't feel strong. I feel like everything I am has crumbled into a million pieces, and I'm just carrying those pieces around, trying to get through the day. You don't see how I sleep all morning, then lay awake in bed at night trying frantically to remember every moment I had with Aria. How terrified I am in knowing that as time goes on the memories will become dimmer, because she was only alive for 7 weeks and those few weeks have to last me a lifetime. I don't want to forget.
You don't see how I can be playing and laughing with my son one moment, then bawling my eyes out the next with no real reason. Or how I barely eat because food holds no flavor anymore. Or how I sit alone in my living room in the middle of the night pumping milk for my baby who will never drink it, because I'm not completely weaned yet and can't sleep through the night comfortably. Or how I wander around looking lost in my own house.
You miss the hollow look in my husband's eyes when other people express their condolence. And the discussions I have with my toddler when he asks why he can't see Aria anymore. You weren't there after the funeral when we were packing all the display things up, and I suddenly had a panic attack asking where her little handprints and footprints were and couldn't calm down until they unpacked enough things in the car to show me that they were right where they said they were.
Unlike most people on earth, I don't WANT to live a long life. Never cared much for the idea of getting very old anyway, but now more than ever I feel like I just have to tolerate the next 50 years until I can die and go be with my baby again. I am living that old cliche of "one day at a time" because if I start thinking about how I have to spend the rest of my life without her I get hysterical.
The grieving process is no joke.
You read it in my letter to Aria, but I'll say it again: the ONLY way we are surviving this is because of our belief that there is something after this life, that we WILL see Aria again. If I didn't believe that, there would be no point to living anymore. I have no idea how people live through tragedies like this without that belief.
That said. . .while that knowledge helps long term, it doesn't lessen the pain any. I know that as time goes on the hurt will sting a little less. I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. We're just trying to go on with our lives because that's the only thing we can do.
Oh, Natasha :(
ReplyDeleteI am so, so sorry you and Michael have to go through this. You are not alone in your grief, honey. John and I are incredibly sad too and are pretty much just "going through the motions" also. We love you all and you're constantly in our prayers.
Michael and Natasha ~ I am a complete stranger who linked to your story from KSL. I weep openly as I read your story because a very similar experience happened to me 17 years ago in July at OCH. The terrifying news that my daughter's late heart decelerations meant trouble. The emergency C-section. The first Apgar score of 1 because she was not breathing. A 2-second glimpse at her while they whisked her to NICU. The ambulance ride to NICU at UVRMC in the scary incubator. The heart-stopping call from the neonatologist the next morning telling us she had begun having seizures and he wasn't sure she'd make it through the day. The agonizing four days until I was recovered enough to go visit her. Those first few times holding her while she was connected to a million machines.
ReplyDeleteMy daughter did live, but her cognitive impairment is so severe that she now lives in a care center. The life of my family has been completely turned upside down since that day. I feel and understand your pain. I very much identify with your emotions in this "What You Don't See" post. Time does not heal all wounds. You will learn to accomodate the pain, but it won't ever go away. You will miss your daughter every day of your lives as I do mine.
Please look for this wonderful book on grief either at Amazon or Barnes and Noble. I would send you a copy if I knew where you are. The book is called "Tear Soup" and it is written by Pat Schwiebert and Chuck DeKlyen. It is the most amazing treatise on grief that I have ever found. Your son will even love the pictures. Your grief process is your own and you can follow your own timeline. No one else has ever felt the exact grief you do, so don't hurry the process or worry about what others may think or say. I hope it helps.
I am very touched by your story and hope you can feel the love and support of others who have experienced similar challenges.