Checking in with each other every night helps Nathan and I
understand how the other person is doing.
It helps us process the day, identify good moments, and talk through the
bad moments. It has been four weeks and
two days since Ayden was born. That is
really hard for me to wrap my mind around.
Some days it feels like she was born yesterday. Some days it is hard for me to believe that
this is our story – this happened to us.
We are still living it out, and it doesn’t even feel real. And some days it is a mix of so many things I
don’t know what it feels like. For so
long, every day got harder and harder.
This was absolutely terrifying to me, because I kept thinking “this was
the worst, hardest day yet. How long can
it keep getting worse? What will ten
days from now feel like? How on earth am
I going to survive this?”
Then the day came, the first day since Ayden was born, that
I did not have a meltdown. Now, this
doesn’t mean I wasn’t missing her, longing for her, and utterly broken that she
isn’t with us. It simply means I made it
through the day without bursting into tears at any point. When Nathan and I checked in with each other
at the end of that particular day, I had so many confusing emotions regarding
the fact that I hadn’t had a meltdown. I’d
heard about this day and read about this day.
The first day you don’t cry after you lose a child. It comes eventually, and everyone reacts to
it differently. There was a very, very
small amount of relief. Part of me was
relieved, because it felt like maybe, just maybe, things would start to get
easier. And then there was guilt. So much guilt. Guilt that I was already moving on, that I was
moving on too quickly, that this meant I wasn’t thinking enough about Ayden
throughout the day, that I was already starting to forget her.
Guilt is a monster. An
evil monster that can quickly overcome you, and destroy you.
I knew in my mind that I should not be feeling guilty for
having not had a meltdown that day. Knowing
in your mind, and feeling in your heart are two very different things. I knew I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I felt
so, so guilty. This is so common for
anyone who has lost a child, to experience this guilt, and to feel they are
betraying their lost child somehow. I
felt this way the first time I didn’t have a meltdown after her initial
diagnosis, but for some reason the guilt wasn’t quite as strong, because I knew
she was still with me and I should focus on the moments I still had with
her. I knew that the real pain was still
yet to come.
Then I started to feel angry that I felt guilty. I felt
angry because I knew how many other mothers in situations like mine were
feeling guilty as well, and how it was so wrong that any of us should feel
guilt. No one should ever feel guilty
for having a day with no tears. It wasn’t
even a good day, it was just a tearless day.
There is absolutely no reason to feel guilty for that. So why do I?
Here’s what I told Nathan, as I processed through this guilt
and anger. I hope that if nothing else,
this helps you understand what a mother (and/or father) is going through during
a time of loss, so you can better be there for them during that time.
Losing a child is hard enough, without the guilt of feeling
like you are moving on. One of the
biggest fears a mother who has lost a child can have, is that her child will be
forgotten. Forgotten by friends and
family, and most of all, by herself. I’m
not saying this is rational. I’m saying
this is a reality. Biggest fear = child
being forgotten.
A tearless day does not mean a painless day. However, despite how painful, a tearless day
convinces a mother that she is moving on.
“Moving on” are two words that are horrifying, terrifying, hated, and
fear-instilling in times like this. Moving
on suggest leaving something behind. It means
moving beyond something, forgetting, and continuing on with life.
Parents who lose children do not move on. It may appear that we do, but we absolutely,
do not.
There is a big difference between moving on, and healing.
I never want to “move on” from Ayden. I do not want to move on from having her,
from losing her, from knowing her, from loving her. I do not ever want to move on. And I won’t.
There won’t be a day in my life where I don’t think of her, miss your,
wish I still had her. I will never move
on.
But I do want to heal.
Sometimes, it’s hard to distinguish between moving on and
healing. We convince ourselves that if
we heal, it means we are moving on. That
is a lie, that so many of us fall into, and that we should never, ever
believe. Healing is necessary, healing
is important in order to continue to live.
Healing is vital. And healing is not the same as moving on.
Healing means we have accepted our circumstances, despite
the fact that we will never be okay with them.
Healing means we allow ourselves to feel, but we do not choose to live
in a constant state of despair. Healing means
we learn to live again, but we never forget.
Healing doesn’t mean we will never experience side effect or pain of
what we have gone through. Healing doesn’t
mean there aren’t scars. Healing doesn’t
mean we won’t feel anymore.
Healing means we can keep living and loving well, in spite
of what we have been through, and what we still carry with us.
Losing a child rips out a part of your inner being. It is like losing a large piece of yourself,
an important piece, like your heart or your soul. Just like any medical procedure, like open
heart surgery, you can heal to the point where you can function normally in
everyday life, but you are forever changed, forever altered, and forever
drastically different than you were before.
A piece of who you are is missing, but you have found a way to heal in
spite of that. You will never replace
that missing piece. But you will heal.
It was so good to express all of this out loud to
Nathan. He had been feeling the same
way. It was good to reassure each other
that healing is good, and it is not the same as moving on.
If you know someone who has lost a child, please be easy on
them. Let them talk about their little
one. Understand that no amount of time
will take away all the pain. Be gracious
to them, and let them feel what they need to feel, and never pressure them to
move on. Help them heal, by being
affirming, loving, supporting, and kind.
Help them learn to live, but also help them by letting them remember and
cherish their child. Nathan and I have
the absolute best support system in the entire world, and we are so grateful
for that. Some moms and dads are going
through this completely alone, and they feel that their pain is a burden to
those around them, they are lost and hurting, and they cannot see any
hope. Know that even if they look okay
on the outside, they are shattered on the inside, and often times have no idea
how to begin putting themselves back together.
Instead of telling them what they need, maybe ask them how you can help.
Be kind to each other.
Love each other. It’s that
simple.
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