Grief really is like the wave that so many people relate it to. Sometimes you feel as if you’re drowning, sometimes you are just barely treading water enough to breathe, sometimes the tidal wave smashes over your head and you don’t know which way is up or if you’ll survive. And sometimes the water is smooth, crystal clear and lets you see the amazing life below.
That last part is the bit that nobody really told me, that I’ve never read. Almost all of the reading I’ve done on Facebook forums and in grief websites, magazines and books, I’m faced with ideas on how to cope if I’m not OK. I’ve never read anything that told me how to manage when I am OK. The wave analogy often describes that in time you’ll learn to swim better; that the waves will become smaller and further apart; that you’ll be able to better predict them in time. But for me, what I’ve discovered is that Emily’s death has been like a window into another world, and often, a window into myself. It horrifies me just a little to say it but sometimes it’s even made life better than before.
For almost a week after Emily, I told everyone to stay away. I wouldn’t yet allow family to travel to see me from interstate, or allow the rare friends I’d allow in the door to visit for more than a few minutes at a time. I cried almost all day every day and my husband was a little concerned. I hid in a favourite children’s book that I stared at more than read, I slept in late and I ate my weight in chocolate and cups of tea. I didn’t leave the house at all that week except to go to the morgue and later to the funeral home. I planned Emily’s farewell ceremony and cremation via the phone and internet. Every minute of every day, my primary task was grieving. Until it wasn’t.
My brother had arrived and he and his wife rescued me from a situation I wasn’t coping well with. We took a walk in a park and chatted gently as we walked. Six days after Emily’s death, I laughed. I smiled several times even. For minutes at a time, I didn’t think about Emily and I could even think about her for short periods with happiness rather than sadness. Less than a week! I was horrified with myself. I knew I must have been a terrible, uncaring mother for this to have happened.
I tried to think constantly about the awfulness of her death, to miss her all the time, and I couldn’t.
As a loving friend told me at the time, ‘don’t try to cling to it. It would be like trying to catch a moonbeam’. Despite knowing that my grief would change over time, I was devastated. It was too soon for me to feel this way and I wasn’t ready. Those minutes of peace and happiness continued though, even when I felt guilty sitting with them.
Most of the time, I was still devastated and crying for long periods of time. The second and third week after Emily’s death, I did the things that came intuitively to me to help me grieve and honour her. We said farewell to her in a ceremony that involved planting a tree and spreading ashes. I planted our summer veggie garden with family to help nurture life. I started a journal and wrote in cafes in the sun. I went for long walks with friends and talked about Emily over, and over, and over. I started to feel happy for bunches of minutes, sometimes an hour or two at a time.
Happy? I felt this was even greater proof that I was a bad person. I even tried to hope to die, but I couldn’t manage to make myself want that. I still felt a strong sense of purpose in my life and a deep underlying sense that I would emerge from the situation with strength. While in some moments that certainty wavered or disappeared, it was as if it was always there under the mess of my emotions. I would be OK. At times, I hated that.
A month after Emily died I went back to work. I cried at the threshold and almost turned around. I didn’t turn on my computer until 3pm. I realized that my cognitive function was almost entirely absent and I could frequently not see my screen through the tears. I returned only part time, my work mate continuing to cover my role, allowing me to keep the pressure off and continue to work through what I needed to.
I began to use mindfulness meditation every day to help me to focus better and assist recovery. Though I could occasionally be found huddling in the corner of my office on the floor, I begin to smile more at workmates, and unleash my notoriously loud, unrestrained laugh at times. One day, in response to an inane mistake by a workmate I fell into laughter that I couldn’t stop; after a moment watching me, it became infectious and we spent so many minutes in tears of merriment that several colleagues came to check on us to see if we were OK.
And I was OK.
My daughter died at 3 weeks and 1 day old almost three months ago and I’m already OK. I loved her deeply in a way I couldn’t have ever imagined and my love for her- my knowing her- has made me stronger. The grief I feel at her loss has become a sharp contrast to other parts of my life, which has allowed me to more acutely feel joy. I laugh often and I laugh hard, with wild abandon. I stop and I watch the wind playing in the trees, or the misty rain reflecting the morning city sun and they all remind me of her; impossibly beautiful and unspeakably precious. I appreciate these moments all the more, now that I no longer have her to hold.
My memories of Emily sometimes cause tears, but they always make me smile. Remembering the last day of her life, when we held her and sang her to her final sleep holds a very special place in my heart, and I feel privileged to have been able to be there with her, to comfort her through her last breaths of life.
I don’t feel guilty anymore. Accepting death and enjoying life isn’t the same as enjoying the actual death. Even when I watch the parents in my loss community endure a day-by-day struggle, or witness my own husband grappling with an onslaught of emotion. Where I previously worried that someone would judge me or consider me uncaring, I now know that grief is intensely personal and that I can’t actually be doing it wrong; my journey to reflect my love and care for my baby is my own to choose and tread.
I’ve recognized that while it’s OK to not be managing well, it’s fine to feel as if you’re experiencing a different set of emotions. There are many ways to honour a child, and one of them is in vibrancy and enjoyment of life. Emily Beatrice Dagg gave me a surprising gift; when she lost her life, she managed to give a little bit of it to me.
It’s OK to be OK.
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Sue Dagg is 34 years old and lives with her husband Rob and bulldog Lilly. Their daughter Emily Beatrice was born prematurely at 23+4 due to PROM and died after only three weeks of life. She was a fighting spirit who beat many odds to be born. For Sue, part of bringing meaning to Emily’s life is found in breaking the stigma of talking about pregnancy and infant loss, and ensuring others know they’re not alone.
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Sue, first let me tell you how sorry I am for the loss of your sweet Emily. She was truly a gift. Second, let me thank you for so perfectly putting into words exactly how I feel.
I also went into preterm labor and was on bed rest in the hospital for 10 days before giving birth to my perfect baby girl, Izzy. Izzy was born with 3 undiagnosed congenital heart defects. She was given open heart surgery 10 days after birth, in which she sustained severe complications and passed away 10 days after that.
I, too, grieved hard the first week, came up out of it, struggled with returning to work, and am now seemingly “ok”. I have turned to faith for comfort and working out 5 days a week for strength. My career has placed me in the unique position of lowering costs at childrens’ hospitals. I’m in the process of opening a local chapter for an infant loss support group. Izzy made me a mom and she gave me just a smidgen of her strength, so I could face the rest of my life in celebration of her presence rather than decestation at her loss.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful story with all of us. I feel our girls, Isabel and Emily, were gifts to bring happiness and joy to our lives instead of sadness that we can’t overcome.