I survived.
I survived one whole year without my daughter.
52 weeks. 365 days of emptiness.
I feel like I’m out of words. Some days, I believe I’m out of tears.
I fought this survival. I fought it tooth and nail. I didn’t want to survive one hour let alone one year without my baby. There was a point where I didn’t think I would ever breath again, every step was begrudgingly taken, one at a time. I resented every day, every breath, every ache that reminded me how broken and shattered my life had become. I only wanted to be with my Savannah.
But, this survival…I have to play by its rules. And the rules aren’t fair.
I want to say to the universe, “Alright, I lived one year without her! Did I pass your demented test?! Can I please have my daughter back, can I have how my life was supposed to be?”
But I know what the answer is. It will always be the same. And I will be forced to keep going, keep wondering, keep asking.
I can still feel it on some days- the gut wrenching emptiness and the noise of the shock. The weight and heaviness of fresh grief as it was in those early weeks. That all consuming disbelief in reality that leaves you with nothing but longing for your little one.
Often I find myself angry and bitter and spiteful. I look around and everywhere I see other women having children, they make it look so damn easy. There’s no panic or terror or tremors. Only tears of joy as they leave the hospital with a baby in their arms. I should have had that too. Why didn’t I get to bring my baby home? Resentment and despair and longing have crept so deep into my bones that I don’t think they’ll ever find their way out. They may become less prominent over time but I don’t think they’ll ever disappear completely.
People comment on how “strong” my husband and I are. I don’t want to be strong, I want to be normal. There is nothing strong about living without your child. We don’t have any other choice but to go on without her; to go on living some semblance of a life while constantly missing her. There is no other option.
I try to imagine how things would be different, all the things we would have done this past year, how much she would have grown, milestones hit, what she would look like now. But I often can’t. I can’t imagine my own child! I can’t imagine these things because I don’t know a life that doesn’t involve me parenting her from afar. My reality is talking to the clouds and reminding people that my daughter is a person too and she deserves to be recognized even though she’s not physically here.
I struggle to imagine her any other way than that beautiful newborn. The one who was so vibrant, always kicking with force and posing with her little hand next her face in nearly every ultrasound picture we have. So perfectly serene when I held her. In my mind, she will forever be that little baby girl, swaddled so gently in the mint and yellow knit blanket gifted to us by the hospital. That is the only way I can picture my Savannah, that is the only way I know her.
I want to do so much for her, and I don’t know how. As much as she inspires me, and I know I need to continue living for her, one year later and I admittedly feel stuck– unsure of how to move forward, struggling to believe I make her proud. The thought of moving forward into a future with a hole in my family is still terrifying, I want nothing more than to stay in the past with my girl. Yet the hard reality of it is, time and life still go on whether we want it to or not. No matter how hard I peddle back, I am continuously forced forward.
There isn’t one minute that passes where I don’t miss that piece of my heart, but I know she is holding it tight, keeping it safe. My wounds aren’t as fresh as before but they are still jagged and tender to the touch. And while I can’t pick her up and squeeze her tight, I still look forward to those quiet moments in my day when I can whisper, “I love you” and I know she hears me.
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
- Dear Grief Bully - February 27, 2017
- Indescribable - January 18, 2017