I always wonder how other families suffering with a loss cope with the normal day to day activities. I know for me it is a vicious cycle that repeats itself EVERY SINGLE DAY. From the minute I wake up to the minute I fall asleep my days just continue to replay over and over.
My day starts out at 7am to my alarm blaring when it should be starting off at 4am to a screaming hungry baby. As I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling for what feels like forever, I manage to drag myself out of bed. I need to go downstairs and let the dog out. Seems like a fairly simple and mundane task, right?? Wrong. That simple walk down the hallway to the stairs means that I have to walk by that closed door. That closed door leads into the empty nursery where our baby girl should be sleeping. I should be opening that closed door to wake up my sleeping baby to get her ready for the day. That closed door ruins my day every day.
After I manage to get myself ready for the day, I now have to muster up the strength just to walk out of the door. I have to now leave the safety of my house. Those four walls provide the safety of not having to hear about other people kids, the safety of not having to see other people babies and kids, and the safety of not having to see other women happily pregnant. Those four walls provide me the safety of not having to pretend to be ok. While I am inside those four walls I can let it out and know that now I can stop pretending and cry all I want. Those four walls don’t judge me. They don’t tell me that I should “move on”. They don’t look at me with pity. They help to support me and let me cry and scream all I want. Leaving the safety of those four walls everyday means having to deal with reality.
After mustering up the strength to leave the emotional safety of my house I now have to make the dreaded drive to work. That dreaded drive means having to drive by schools and drive by all those kids walking to the bus stop. It means driving by the day care that I should be stopping at to drop off my baby girl. It means having to see all the happy and healthy kids walking to the bus stop and talking to their friends. It means I am once more reminded that my baby girl will never experience that. It reminds me every day that I won’t ever get to walk her to the bus stop on her first day of school. It reminds me that this will not be my new morning routine.
After the drive to work I am now faced with the reality of work. I am faced with walking through work and seeing everybody’s desk with all the pictures of their kids and babies. I am faced with seeing my pregnant co-workers. I am faced with everyone seemingly forgetting that I was the pregnant one and now I am not. I am faced with people expecting me to be ok and do my job with 100% efficiency. When the truth is I am not ok and I do not want to be here and I do not want to see your kids. I want to see my baby and I want to be able to tell stories about the silly thing she did the night before. But again, this isn’t my reality.
After a completely crappy day at work I now have to make my way back home. Back to a childless house and back to my husband who is being strong for the both of us. But I know that is a lie, I know he is pretending to be strong so that I can grieve and cry. I feel the guilt each day that he feels he has to be my rock and that I cannot be his. I feel the guilt each day that I wasn’t able to give him the daughter he always wanted. I feel the guilt that my body failed her.
On the way home I will once again drive past that daycare that I should be pulling into to pick up our baby girl. I should be reaching out my arms when she runs up to me full of joy. But I am not…. I am returning to that childless house. That same house that provided the safety from the outside world is also a constant reminder that our baby died. A constant reminder that I am no longer pregnant. Her nursery remains the same way it did before we lost her. Her clothes remain hung in the closet and her swing remains in the corner. Every day after work I have to once again walk past that closed door. That closed door that hold everything I ever dreamed of.
The safety of those four walls become my sanctuary once again. As the sun sets and my husband comforts me on the couch reality sets back in. Those walls are my safe place and come 7am tomorrow I will have to endure this hell all over again. I will have to venture back out and deal with everything all over again. I will have to be faced with everything I am scared to see or hear because everything brings tears to my eyes. Everything somehow leads right back to the fact that our baby is not here and will never be here.
I long for the day that I can drive past that park and be ok. I long for the hope of having a perfectly healthy child. I long for sense of peace and understanding. I feel this will never come but I remain hopeful. I know out baby girl would not want me to feel this defeated. For this reason alone, I continue to try and live my life to the fullest. I try my hardest to move on with my day and find some sense of happiness. I do this for her. I do this for Rowan. I hope she is proud of me. I hope she knows how loved she was and still is. I hope that one day I can walk out of those four walls and not be scared. But unfortunately, that day is not today.
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My name is Jessica and I am 32 years old. I am a wife and the mother of 1 playful 4 year old puppy. We are proud to call Atlanta, GA our home. Since being married me and my husband have experienced 6 losses, 5 of them being very early and the 6th one happening at 33 weeks on April, 18, 2016. Losing our daughter Rowan has and will forever be the hardest thing we have ever been through. We are living day by day and forever supporting each other. I hope that by sharing my story and daily struggles some of you can find some sort of peace knowing that you are not alone.
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So sorry for your loss. I lost my son on April 28,2016 at 35 gestation ? This has truly been the most painful loss my husband and I endured. It is a grief that will last forever and you are faced for challenges every minute of the day. Be easy ok yourself momma
Oh Jessica, this post rings so true to me in so many ways. I saw the title this morning but had to make my way to work and as I thought about what words would go along with “Every single day” in my life I just cried. After reading this, so many of these feelings are the same. We lost our son, Lachlan on April 1, 2016 at 33 weeks and I just can’t imagine getting through the day ever without all these feelings. I am so sorry for your loss.
Every single day of our lives we are to watch around as invisible mothers and it is not fair. We should be looking at their sweet faces and watching all the new things they should be doing. I wish this was not our reality. It is so cruel and unfair but we love our babies so much that we will continue to live on for them even though some days it literally feels impossible. Rowan is so proud of her mama always.
Hi Jessica.
Thank you putting your words on here. You have described perfectly how I am feeling. Our baby girl passed in june, she was 6 days over due date and very much wanted. I struggle also seeing everyone carry on with their normal family lives. And I too only carry on in order I hope I am doing Eve proud.
Sending you love and sunshine in the dark days x
Thank you for sharing your story. Tears stream down my face as I read your poignant words, how they ring so true. I’m so sorry that your sweet Rowan is not here with us. I know she is proud of you as you walk through all the trenches and obstacles that come with this kind of loss. We lost our sweet Baby Boy on May 23rd at 30 weeks. You are not alone. Sending love and holding space for you.
Hi Jessica
Thank you for sharing.
I was thinking about this just today.
About the fact that it is every single day. That I get up, and this is what it is. That I go to bed, knowing that the next day, this is what it is.
I went to the vet with my dog this morning, and there was a very young woman, with her young child. And I just stared. And I wondered. I wonder about my three — a daughter (stillborn) and two sons (both SIDS deaths).
Every day, I wonder. I wonder why it happened to me. I wonder why my children died. I wonder what they would be like now. I wonder whether I would become a grandmother. I wonder about everything.
I miss the way I was. I miss the way I was going to be.
I long for the day that I will be ok too. But I’ve sort of accepted that will never be. It’s been 10 years since our daughter died, and 8.5 years and 7 years for our sons.
This is it now. Every single day. And it’s not ok.
((hugs)) to you.
Mirne