As I write this, we’ve entered the seventh month without our baby girl. Most days I look around and don’t recognize how I got here.
I no longer spend hours crumpled up on the floor or thrown on the bed shaking, soaked in sweat and tears. Yet I would be lying if I said there weren’t still tears most days- some days more than others, but most days. I cry because I simply miss my daughter. And I cry because I lost a piece of my identity and purpose. I am a mother but am seldom recognized as one. Instead, I’m forced to stand on the sidelines and watch all the other parents bring their babies home and live out the dreams that I once had.
The sharp realization that she is not here still lingers. I should be watching her nap in her crib or brushing her wispy brown hair, mastering tummy time or groaning in frustration over losing yet another one of her dainty socks in the laundry. Instead, I catch myself staring blankly at her urn lost in daydreams of what should have been. Even in moments during the day when she is not at the very top of my mind there is a subconscious awareness that something is missing. An emptiness that is constantly present and aching.
Even though my husband and I can speak our daughter’s name more freely now, there are still moments when saying it pierces through the air and into my heart like a knife. But I long to hear it. I always will.
I have come to understand that there are no shortages of contradictions when dealing with grief. There are days that I would give anything to be out of this nightmare. To live in some other reality- any reality, as long as it is not this one! Days when I want nothing more than to be normal, no longer wanting to hurt, and willing to give anything if it would allow me to hold my baby again. And there are times when I don’t want this pain and agonizing grief to ever leave because it is all I have left of my daughter; it somehow makes her real, so I grasp at it through the air and hold onto it as tightly as I can.
I still laugh and smile when something strikes me as genuinely funny but I do not give these moments away as freely as I once did. I’ve become much more guarded of my happiness and no longer do I take glimpses of hope and joy for granted.
Most of my clothes still hang on me from the excessive weight loss. Immediately after Savannah’s death eating and taking care of myself no longer seemed important. I had watched everything I did for nine months and in the end it didn’t make one ounce of difference because I had no control over what happened. It’s a hard lesson to wrap your head around to not have control over your own body. Learning to forgive my body’s betrayal remains a daily challenge.
I have a c-section scar and stretch marks covering the front of my stomach, they are less angry looking now, but still very much visible. For months, I couldn’t stand the sight of them, constant reminders of the life I carried and the daughter I lost. Like many things though, my opinion of these is evolving. I’m learning to love them now. I no longer want them to fade because they remind me of how bouncy and boisterous she was. They’ll remain my way of always carrying her.
I still want to shake friends and family into understanding this pain. I want to scream in their faces until my own turns blue and I want them to see that the hazy veil of protection they live in can be torn away so easily too. I want them to recognize the guilt of not being able to protect their baby, the agony that comes with having to say goodbye and the misery of getting out of bed everyday knowing that their little one is gone. I want them all to know. But they don’t, and most never will.
During these seven months, I have learned and re-learned that grief is not stagnant. I know now that the elements of grief are fluid and will continue to change and morph each day for the rest of my life. The only constant is the love I have for my little girl. Time will not change that and it is the one thing that can never be taken away.
Life never asked me what I wanted, and I strive each day to pick up another piece of my shattered motherhood and fight to be the mother my daughter deserves.
This is my normal now. This is my reality.
Seven months down, a lifetime left to go.
Amy continues to search for ways to build purpose and promise back into her life as she fights to honor the memory, and story, of her only child.
- One Whole Year - May 22, 2017
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Hi Amy, I have had four pregnancy losses, three in first term and the last and final at 16 weeks on February 10, 2016. These are all classified as miscarriages, I know. The love and bond with your baby grows as he or she does and so I don’t pretend to know the reservoir of grief and emotion that you and other Still Mothers experience. And yet – I am somehow also envious that you were able to hold your child and be named a mother. Isn’t that so crazy – how I could be envious of such despair and loss? But somehow, that’s how this all works. I don’t pretend to understand any workings of any human heart.
Anyway, I wanted to say that your honest and articulate words here have brought me immense comfort this morning (which seemed to be a really difficult one, for some reason). I admired deeply the strength you and other Still Mothers have, and it gives me courage on the bad days. We are unable to have our own children, and that has been hard to accept at times, but every new day brings a renewed view of our beautiful world, and I hope that it does the same for you. All the best to you and your family.
Hi Andrea, I am so very sorry to hear of your losses. No matter how long you carried your precious babies, whether for 7 weeks or full term, you are still a mother and deserve to be recognized as such. Your love and grief for your children exists and is valid. I do understand your feelings of envy, as I have experienced them as well towards parents who got to see their babies alive if even for a moment. It is another ugly layer of this awful grief journey.
Thank you for sharing your story. I am honored that my words were able to help in some way. Sending you and your family many warm wishes and much love.
Thank you for your warm article! We lost our baby boy,Roman, 15 August 2016. I was on my 37 weeks. I find it difficult to explain to our families what we exactly feel. Thanks to this article I see now how I can do it. All I need now is to find force to put my emotions on the paper. Thank you one more time!
Thank you for your beautiful feedback Viktoria! I’m so sorry to hear you lost your precious Roman. I hope you are able to find the words to explain to your family how you feel and we are here if you need support.
This article are words taken right out of my heart, and mind. I lost my son 4/28/16 and everything you describe is so raw and real. So sorry for your lose and you are not alone in this horrible grief journey.
I’m so sorry to hear about your sweet son, and that you know the pain of this grief. Wishing you so much peace and comfort as we travel on this journey.
Thank you. This is a beautiful reflection.
Thank you, Chiara.