Ten Years Later

“What was it like to lose {her}?” Asked Sorrow. There was a long pause before I responded: It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to me—said all at once.” (-Lang Leav)

She had ten perfect fingers. Ten tiny toes. And it’s been ten years since I’ve held them.

120 months, 521 weeks, 3,652 days ago, our second child was born. And we buried her four days later. I’ve missed her every day since.

The day before we she was born, it was a gorgeous spring day. The sun shone bright and the smell of new life was in the air. I remember both the warmth of the sun on my skin while we ate ice cream for lunch, and the sounds of the birds chirping close-by. They landed near us in hopes of pieces of our leftovers. Hours later, our world went dark and stayed that way for years. We were in pieces and what was leftover was a life and world completely unrecognizable. I no longer felt the sun, I didn’t notice the birds.

“I entered the After-loss broken and shattered. It's like I had this big bag of fragments I once called life and dumped them in the middle of this new world and said, " Here. This is all I've got left. What can I do with this?” (-Benjamin Allen)

I didn’t think I could survive life here without her. And ten years, then, sounded impossible. It doesn’t feel as though it’s been this long. It’s almost as if space and time has been warped for me. I can, with incredible ease, transport myself back to that May day with her. And I do. Almost every single day. Maybe it’s to visit her. Or maybe it’s because I am so afraid of forgetting. Not her, I could never, but I’m scared the small details will slip away. I have so little left from her time here that I cling desperately to what I can remember. 

I didn’t know what to expect a decade after her death. I was in survival mode for years. Eventually, the light did finally return to our world, but life was, and is, so very different now. Standing in front of your child’s casket changes you at a soul level. I searched for the beauty from the pain and I found it, but in my unfiltered and always honest attempt at sharing my story, there is damage and trauma that only her presence could heal. I’ve learned that not everything in life can be fixed. I still apologize to her each time I visit her grave. Survivor’s guilt is not easily overcome. I’m still broken-hearted yet strong. There's an undercurrent of grief but I'm continually healing. I’ve learned life is full of gray areas where you can be so much more than one thing at a time

“There will be people you love, Who can't stay for ever, And there will be things you can't fix, Although you are clever. But listen hard, and listen good. Life might not go as it should, But you are young and your life will be magic, It will be happy and funny and sometimes tragic. Don't forget who you are. You are a fighter. As the dark in the sky makes the stars shine bright, You will find the bad stuff has good bits too. The bad days are the days that make you you…” ― Matt Haig, The Truth Pixie

What I wish I knew then, was although I would carry the weight of her death with me through my life, it wouldn’t always be so heavy, and life would be beautiful again. It’s not always easy, grief is always under the surface, and triggers are always tugging at my heart. I still wonder who she would’ve been and what life with her would’ve been like. But this life that I am living now IS beautiful. I know I wasn’t able to dream this a possibility in those early days. I’m so thankful for finding my way out of the darkness years ago. I’ve worked so hard to be here.

Every moment of her life was through me. So, today, on her tenth birthday, I will allow the sun to warm my skin, I will listen to the birds, I will eat ice cream for dinner, and I will continue to love and live this life, for the both of us.

To my Nurses, Thank you

It’s May, Janessa’s month. It’s also currently Nurse’s Appreciation Week. In my world, those two are deeply intertwined. I cannot remember her without also remembering the nurses who took care of me over those three days during the worst moments of my life. They also took compassionate care of Janessa. They washed her, dressed her, swaddled her, and held her, all with love. And tears. I don’t know how they do what they do, I know I could not.

To the nurse who tried to keep reassuring us while another searched desperately for her heartbeat with the doppler, thank you.

To the nurse who responded calmly and reassuringly to Jonathan’s terror over my blood loss and my coloring from hypovolemic shock, thank you.

To the nurse who held me when my water broke, and never left my side until the doctor arrived, thank you.

To the nurses who stamped my daughter’s footprints, one of my most treasured possessions, made molds of her hand and feet, and cut a lock of her hair for us, giving us some tangible items to remember her, thank you.

To the nurse who offered to take some photos of us with her and captured the only time we ever had our daughter, thank you.

To the nurse who helped me bathe after she was born while I sobbed in the shower, thank you.

To the nurses who checked in with my husband to see how he was doing, who remembered that his daughter had passed, too, thank you.

To the nurse who helped direct us and our family for funeral arrangements when we were too distraught to think coherently, thank you.

To the nurse I handed my daughter over to for the very last time, the amazing woman who grabbed my face into her palms, looked me in the eyes and told me I would survive this, that we would get through her loss, when she knew I didn’t think I could or that I would believe her, thank you.

To the same nurse who quickly turned around with Janessa when I panicked as she exited the door, and placed her back into my arms for one last kiss, thank you.

To the nurse who cared for me through my subsequent pregnancy when I felt as though I was losing my mind with worry and anxiety, thank you.

To the nurse who recognized my PTSD when they whisked our son away to the nursery for the night after his very late nighttime birth, and returned him to my arms, thank you.

These moments would have been additionally traumatic without your care, empathy, compassion, skills, expertise, and calming nature. I know it must not be easy. I know you hurt with us, and grieve for us, and take it all home with you.

To all the nurses on my friends list, or those that may read this post on Butterfly Footprints, who wake up each day and do a sometimes, almost thankless job, I hope my words show you how deeply you make a difference and how very appreciated you are.

Thank you for all that you do.