I know that the grieving process is made up of the tiny steps we try to take toward healing. On Sunday, we held a memorial open house for our sweet Lucy. I felt that I needed to do this, not just to honor her, but to give myself and those we love a chance for a tiny bit of closure, to share hugs, love, and just be with the people we know best for a few minutes to reflect on our lost little angel. It was a tough day, but somehow it made me feel a little better. For a while. One more tiny little step toward beginning to heal, even though I have a million more to go.

Chris returned to work yesterday and today to knock out the teacher professional development days, and for the first time since losing Lucy, I am completely alone in my own company. I am scared, vulnerable, insecure… It would be so easy to let go and be swept away with the undertow of sadness. I am nearly there, but still clinging to the buoy, anchored by a thread, trying not to drown. I could stay in bed, in the dark, staring at the ceiling with tears streaming down my face all day long, thinking of all we’ve lost, I really could. But I won’t, I can’t, I want to be strong. There are moments in which I am overcome by the harsh knife-point of sorrow ripping and tearing away at my heart, my soul… the only way to get through it is to remind myself to breathe, let the tears flow, and just ride the wave until it subsides. And maybe there is healing in that, in just feeling it. The heartache is always bubbling just beneath the surface, and there are times when it’s impossible to contain, it just comes out. In those moments, I am glad to be alone, with my thoughts, the precious photos of our girl, the things that were supposed to be hers… oh how I wish for any other outcome but this.

I know there is no getting around the truth: my baby died. Seeing those three words typed on the screen feels so empty, so harsh. The gift of being her mother was snatched away from me, just moments before it should have happened. There aren’t any answers, there is no one to blame, and I can’t change it. I can’t change it. I loved her from the moment I knew she existed, and my heart will be forever broken because I couldn’t save my baby. Even though my logical brain knows that I did nothing wrong, I still feel that I let our daughter down… so many broken promises of the dreams and plans I had for her… so many beautiful moments we have been robbed of. It’s all so unfair. Nothing will ever be the same, I will never be the same.

There is no escaping the fact that this journey of grief is made up of wave after wave of varying levels of anguish. The fact that this is still only the beginning of the journey sometimes overwhelms me into wishing time away, ahead into the future so it won’t ache and hurt so much. I know missing Lucy and thinking about this tragedy that’s been unleashed on my husband and me is never going to be easy, but it will become more manageable with time. Time heals all things, so they say, but I don’t know if it’s true in this case. How could it be, when part of me feels as though it died with our little girl?

Riding the waves over the past few days has been a challenge, and there are more triggers than I’d ever imagined there could be. A box of diapers in an unexpected place. Taking my poor husband to the ER with a scratch on his cornea and suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the idea of being back in a hospital so soon. A thoughtful gift from a loving aunt. The gratefulness felt when my mom and two of her dear sisters cleaned our home for us. Working on Lucy’s memorial keepsakes. The tenderness that still surrounds my C-section incision. Leaking the milk I’ll never be able to feed our baby. The kindness of a former student working at Walgreens who paid for my Lucy photos, because I’ve “always taken care of my students when they were having a tough time”. Seeing a toddler dance around a store aisle. The sunlight shining in through Lucy’s nursery window, though I cannot bring myself to shut the door. Hearing the Lumineers song “Ho Hey”, which I would sing for Lucy when I was pregnant… “I belong with you, you belong with me, you’re my sweetheart… So, so many emotional triggers. I miss her so much, every moment of the day, every moment I’m awake, every moment in my dreams.

I will continue to try braving these waters of grief, even on the days I don’t want to get out bed, because I still believe that I need to make my daughter proud. I get out of bed for my husband, for our dog, for myself, for our Lucy. I know eventually we will make it through this fog and find our happy again, though we won’t ever be the same.

It’s been two weeks since we’ve had to say goodbye to our precious Lucy. I find myself wishing with all of my might that this is still a nightmare, a cruel joke, a lie. The loss of a child is ‘an assault on the soul’… nothing could be more true. It truly goes against the laws of nature. Our hearts ache every moment of the day, but Chris and I have decided that we will get through this, we will be okay, we will make it to the other side of this ocean of grief. We will do it for our little girl. What would we want her to observe of us as we demonstrate how to cope with the unimaginable obstacles that life can give to us? What would we hope to teach her about loss and grief if she were here? Through all of this sorrow and unfathomable pain, there is one thing that stands strong, and that is LOVE. More than the despair, the anger, the hurt, we feel love. We will carry on because we now live and love for Lucy. We will continue to love each other with all of our hearts.

8/24/16
My dearest Lucy,
Today I miss you more than ever. You are still the light of my life, and I will always love you with my whole heart. I can’t believe that this nightmare is real, and that you aren’t here with us to celebrate that you’d be two weeks old today. We had so many plans, so many things we were going to share. I’d give anything to trade places with you still, and it’s hard to accept that there was simply no choice in the matter. You were taken from us, and it just isn’t fair. For nine months, I felt your beautiful presence within my body, and for nine wonderful months, I cherished your every movement, every little hiccup, and even those hard kicks and somersaults after dinner time. How could we have known that it would end this way? I keep trying to tell myself to be strong for you… I remind myself a thousand times a day, in those moments when I just want to crumble into dust because of the pain I feel from losing you, that I still want to make you proud. In those moments, I try my best to pick myself up and show you how I can be strong, because that’s what I’d want to teach you about how to handle the worst that life can bring. Today it’s been hard to do that, but I will keep trying for you, my precious girl. As much pain as I feel, I also feel a love for you that is beyond measure, that fills my whole being with light. I would rather have you here with me physically, but know that you are always, always in my heart, every moment of each day, and that you will always be part of me. I love you and I miss you, sweet girl.
-Mommy
…
Today we should be celebrating that our little Lucy is two weeks old. Instead, we are planning the details of her memorial open house. How cruel life is right now. This morning, I went out to get our mail, and another harsh reminder lay waiting for me in the mailbox… a sample box of formula. I didn’t want to crumble in front of the neighbors (though any of them would have understood, I’m sure), so I waited until the box was safely in the trash can and I was in the house before letting my sorrow pour down my face as I sobbed for my baby girl. One blessing was in the mail though- a brief sympathy card from our mailman. I was relieved to know that whenever he dropped the next package off at the door that Chris or I would not have to face the question, “How’s the new baby?”. I am thankful that someone else told him our awful story so we wouldn’t have to.

This afternoon, I was at a Michael’s store, to pick up some odds and ends for the little keepsakes I’m making for Lucy’s memorial, and the store was naturally filled with lovely pregnant women and little children. I won’t lie and say that I’m not jealous, angry, or in extreme anguish when I see these things… It is so much harder than I thought it could be to see such life surrounding me. Inside my head, I am screaming and seething, and all I think about is getting the hell out of the scene I’ve found myself in, and ache to hold my little girl. It is so damn hard to keep it together any time I’ve ventured out in to public since this happened. The vulnerability I feel is absolutely overwhelming. If not for Chris, I don’t think I’d get out of bed in the morning… he is my rock, he keeps me going. He is stronger than I am right now, though this has been as much hell for him as has been for me. He continues to tell me that he knows that I have constant physical reminders of our loss and post-partum hormones that simply won’t allow me to find any escape from this. I am so thankful that he understands. He has his many household projects and I am still healing from the C-section; I’ll feel a little better when I can move like myself again. One thing this has made me realize is that our marriage is strong, and we can get through anything together. I know we will take turns being each others’ strength on this journey. Together, we continue to try to look forward and hope that maybe we will have the opportunity again to share our love with a child of our own… I just wish it had been this child. I know that in spite of the sorrow we feel, there is more love.