Last week in a session, Julie, my therapist, stopped me mid-sentence and said to me, “Jessica, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT.” I don’t remember what I had been saying immediately prior to her so directly and clearly stating this to me, but I stopped speaking and suddenly I couldn’t control the torrent of tears and sobs that escaped from me. It has taken me more than nine months to truly realize that Lucy’s death wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. Even though all evidence points to the fact that I did nothing wrong, I have been blaming myself for what happened to my beautiful baby. I have been carrying the unfathomable burden of grief AND suffocating myself with blame the whole time. Blame for something that just happened, with no warning, no reason. Though I’ve been hearing this from the doctors, from Chris, from Julie, and from everyone else I know, I have not been able to accept it. I’m not sure why I’m finally allowing myself to believe this, but it seems to have been exactly what needed to be shoved into my stubborn face at that moment.

Why have I been blaming myself? There is no straight, clear answer that I can come up with on my own. I have been trying to dig in and speculate. Throughout my adolescence and adult life, I’ve wrestled with feelings of failure and unworthiness. There are quite a few things that helped manifest those feelings, but that’s to be shared at some other time perhaps. For me, those feelings helped me to become my own worst enemy. The nagging voice telling me I’m not good enough, that I am unworthy of happiness or good things, has followed me for a long time. In spite of my successes in life, I have so often felt that I’m nothing but a failure. Even though there were strong voices cheering me on through my victories, it was always that negative voice that was the loudest. That’s a tough habit to overcome. So when everything went wrong with Lucy’s birth, naturally, I felt that I had failed once again and that maybe I just didn’t deserve her. That maybe I did deserve all of the unspeakable pain of losing a child. Grief has brought ALL of my old insecurities back to the surface and amplified the not-so-old ones, which has fostered the self-blame.

I’ve also held on to this blame because the terrible thing that ended my baby’s life happened in my body. I’ve been believing that I failed at the most important job I had as a mother, which was to protect my child. I couldn’t protect her from what happened. I couldn’t save her. I failed, I failed, I failed. My insecurities and skewed logic teamed up and told me that because I failed to protect her from what happened, it must be my fault. As a result of that, I’ve been absolutely cruel to myself and my post-partum body. There are so many conflicted emotions involved in the way I see myself, especially my body. On one hand, I understand how amazing it was to have grown such a perfect baby and I acknowledge that my body did that. On the other hand, I loathe this body that failed us. I feel ashamed of it, hide it from my husband, I cover it up. Sometimes it’s hard to look at myself in the mirror because all I see is failure. I have all of the physical badges of motherhood, but none of the rewards, and it is difficult to not hate what I see. I’m becoming more forgiving of this body of mine, but it’s tough to let go of those negative feelings.

Looking at all of this straight on has been difficult for me. Finally accepting the truth that what happened to Lucy isn’t my fault has been eye-opening. I’m still struggling with it, but I’m getting there. I didn’t want this to happen, and if love had been enough to save my daughter, she’d be here with me. I did nothing wrong, and in fact, did everything right. I took such good care of myself and my baby throughout our pregnancy, and I always put her first. Chris and I took all of the right steps on the night of her birth; we did everything we were supposed to do. It was not our fault, it was not my fault.

Giving myself permission to forgive myself and my body has taken at least one burden out of this grief equation for me. I am working on overcoming the many insecurities that have ruled me, though I am also giving myself grace. I have finally realized that I am not weak, though I may often feel that way. I have found myself admiring the fortitude and courage of all of the other loss moms out there who’ve shared their stories and persevered through the darkness of grief; I realize now that it is time I begin to see that I share many of the same qualities of those women I admire. I too am courageous. I didn’t deserve this and I did nothing wrong. I have the ability to continue on, to thrive, and to share Lucy’s light with others. If you’re a loss mom who finds herself reading this, I hope with all of my heart that you can also acknowledge your courage, strength, and beauty. This is not an easy road to travel. It is long, grueling, and scary. Don’t be afraid to give yourself credit for being a mother, for continuing to thrive even though you’ve walked through hell. Realize that the loss of your child is not your fault, it is not what you deserve. Love yourself, and know that nothing can ever diminish the pure, fierce love that you have for your child.I promise to keep trying, and I hope that you will too.

A mug I gifted to myself to remind me of my courage, and that I am always Lucy’s mom. (I ordered it from Society 6, through courageousmothers.com)

Today marks 40 weeks since Lucy passed away; when we were suddenly, cruelly robbed of the precious future we were supposed to have with her. Two-hundred eighty days. The time has now arrived in which our little girl has been gone from us for longer than she was here thriving and growing. It seems so… final. It hurts. Though on one hand it feels as though I’ve been carrying this grief eternally, on the other hand, it seems but a blink. Just a blink in time. Yet, Lucy’s short life forever altered mine; such a small life, but such an enormous impact. I am only now just starting to grasp how irrevocably changed I am because of that sweet little baby and all the light she’s brought to my life. Light accompanied by intense pain in the aftermath of the loss of her, but light nonetheless. Only now do I truly understand the power of love. She will always be my guiding light, my star…

The day that’s been on my troubled mind for the past couple of weeks has arrived. Lo and behold, I’m still breathing, still standing. It’s hard, knowing all that I’m missing. Part of me still wants to lay down and never get up again, but the rest of me keeps pressing on, looking for the light. I began the day wanting to avoid all things that are directly and clearly “Mother’s Day”; unfortunately, that meant, to me, that I was not ready to show myself or navigate the world outside of my home today. Which also means that I missed Mother’s Day with my own mother, and my grandmother too. I know that I can’t get this time back, and I am ashamed that I didn’t feel strong enough to face the day, even with these amazing women who love me. A piece of me feels so intensely guilty that I decided to avoid it altogether, or at least avoid the usual ways I would have spent it in the past. Chris and I worked on Lucy’s Garden for a good portion of today instead, which seems to have helped me maintain my composure for now. No meltdowns yet, just an undeniable emptiness in my soul, just the usual pain that comes from my only child having died in my arms. It’s heavy, uncomfortable, rough, but I’m holding myself together at least. I’m feeling the nagging of my conscience too… I worry that I have become a disappointment, a letdown, a nuisance. I sense that from others, or maybe it’s all in my head, I don’t know. It’s just a difficult day, and I hope with all of my heart that next Mother’s Day can be different. I know that no matter what, I will always miss my girl on Mother’s Day (and every day). Right now, I wish with my whole being that this one could have been spent with Lucy in my arms, and that the only issue would have been figuring out how to make sure both of Lucy’s grandma’s would have enough time with our little sweetie. Instead, only this. Only emptiness and heartbreak. I miss her so much.

I have needed some escape lately, so I have been looking for new and interesting things to read. I have lots to choose from on my kindle currently, which is always exciting for a bookworm like me. I’ve been reading Katey Sagal’s Grace Notes: My Recollections over the past few days, and have been really enjoying it. I selected it after reading a little blurb online that mentioned that Katey had a stillborn daughter, Ruby, and that a Buddhist philosophy helped her to make some peace with her tragedy. I was intrigued. I ran across the chapter that discusses this just last night, and I’ve been mulling it over in my mind ever since. It’s the first thing that has made sense to me when it comes to our loss of Lucy, I can relate to so many pieces of it, and it has even managed to bring me some comfort. I’d like to share it here, because it truly has enlightened me. In the chapter/essay titled “Ruby”, Katey writes:

“Where did Ruby go?
Why did she die?
If there really was “no medical reason”… what the fuck happened?

It passed.
The school bell rang.
I could breathe again.
Ruby taught me that lesson by leaving so quickly.
She taught me I could hold more than I ever imagined I could.
…
She let me feel my strength.
She confirmed my faith in something greater than myself.
…
Ruby was done. Her highest purpose– some of which I can name, most of which I’ll never know– was fulfilled.”
(Katey Sagal, Grace Notes: My Recollections, 2017)

I cried reading those passages. Finally- something I can understand and get behind. I am stunned by how much sense it makes to me, and there’s so much comfort in that. I read those passages to Chris, and it’s been sticking in his thoughts as well. Her beautiful little soul was powerful and she got her work done quickly. Perhaps Lucy’s purpose has been fulfilled. Pondering this concept, I too can ask different questions. Instead of “WHY?”, I can instead seek to find out what her purpose here was. She has brought Chris and me closer together, and I have fallen more in love with him… she has also taught me some deeply intense and valuable lessons about life, and my outlook on it is forever altered. Maybe she has steered the course of my path, my soul, my purpose, toward it’s intended destination.

Losing that beautiful baby has absolutely broken my heart (and me); it’s been the single most painful experience of my life. It’s shaken me to the core, and I am picking up the shattered pieces and am trying so hard to mend them. I am different than I was, and I’ll never be that person again. Could that have been a small part of Lucy’s purpose, to point me more clearly in the direction of my own purpose? I may never know. I do know though that any good I put into the world is now to honor my daughter and that I want to do more good to continue bringing more of her light to the world. Perhaps that will impact the paths of others, not just mine.

As I sit here now on this sad Mother’s Day, I am doing my best to embrace my brokenness, find my strength, and look ahead. There is so much beauty in the idea of not only searching for signs of Lucy as I have done each day, but also for evidence in my own life of her soul’s purpose. It may be a very long time before I can truly know or understand any of it, but I do know that I am finally grateful for the continuance of my life after the loss of Lucy. It still hurts terribly to remain in the ‘after’, but I believe that Lucy wants me to continue, and because of the powerful love I have for her, I will. One step at a time.

Today is International Bereaved Mother’s Day… I know I should be grateful for a day that recognizes women like me who’ve lost their whole world in the blink of an eye when their child died. I’m afraid all it’s done this year, this first year, is send me spinning further into the sadness that continuously surrounds me. There have been a lot of tears this week, a lot of overwhelming, harsh emotions to contend with, and if I’m being completely honest, I should admit that I am not winning against them. There has been an abundance of reminders of what I’ve lost when and since Lucy passed away; everywhere I turn this week, there’s something to add to the pain of this unbelievable loss. As the time has ticked by, I continue discover more and more that I’ve lost.

Today, our neighbors are enjoying a family gathering, and all I can hear are the happy squeals and laughter of their children outside. Their sounds of unbridled happiness and the carefree way everyone is strolling around in the yard next door are simply reminders that it is not us… there is no simply joy in our home, or in our lives. Terrible as it is, I honestly wish they’d shut up and go inside. What hurts the most is that Chris and I are on the outside looking in, in every aspect of our lives. I chaperoned a trip to the zoo on Friday with a group of students; the old me would have absolutely loved it, but the ‘new’ me absolutely hated it. Because who else goes to the zoo on a weekday besides school groups? Yep, you guessed it: parents with very young children and babies. Lucky me. There was a little girl in a stroller, probably about Lucy’s age, and I found myself first shamelessly staring at her, and then I couldn’t get away fast enough. It physically hurt to once again be reminded that a trip to the zoo is something else I will never get to share with Lucy. On the bus ride back to school, I observed a student and her mother (who also chaperoned the trip) simply chatting and bonding; her mom kept getting teary-eyed at each mention of the Senior prom and her daughter’s quickly approaching graduation. I had to turn away, pretend to stare out the window, and try to get a grip on myself as hot tears sprang from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. More experiences I will never have with my own daughter. Everything hurts. My mind and heart are so damn tired, and I am struggling terribly.

I made the mistake of scrolling through Facebook the other day (when will I EVER learn?!), and discovered that an ex of mine and his wife welcomed their third child into the world… a girl with exactly the same birth weight and length as my Lucy. The words ‘jealous’ and ‘distraught’ don’t even begin to cover it. It was such a trigger that I simply could not get over it. Why them and not us? Why not us? I felt bad enough that I popped half a Xanax and chased it with a shot of vodka. Though that is not typically my go-to behavior when things get tough, it’s what calmed me down in the moment. Part of me wanted to do a whole lot more. Chris walked in afterward while I was compulsively eating and wiping more tears off my face. I no longer attempt to hide it from Chris when I am teetering on the edge, and at least he sees me and accepts me exactly as I am. Normally I would be ashamed to admit something like that, but I’ve reached a point where sugar-coating the situation is just not feasible anymore. This life after loss absolutely sucks, and I cannot see past this wall of grief and sadness. I am absolutely miserable, and nothing is changing right now… it feels like I am in a holding pattern and I can’t break free from it.

A trifecta of difficult stuff is weighing on me. Mother’s Day feels to me far worse than Christmas did; just thinking about it sends me into an even darker place than I’m already in. The reminders are everywhere. Lucy’s nine month milestone day is Wednesday. On Thursday, it will have been 39 weeks since she died, which also means that we are very quickly approaching the mark at which she will have been gone for longer than she physically existed. How can this be? As time continues, I discover more and more pieces of me that died right along with Lucy. I am not who I once was, and I don’t know who I am right now. I am a shell of my former self. For every moment of semi-normalcy I experience, there are a thousand more painful moments to counter it. I feel very alone, very isolated. The new normal has become simply feeling terrible. Work drains me and leaves me feeling even more desolate and hopeless. My patience is thin and my tolerance short. There is a small part of me that maintains the hope that maybe someday a change will come, that maybe joy will coincide with the bleakness. It feels like I may wait for quite some time for a spot of true happiness. The only thing keeping me afloat right now is my relationship with Chris. Without that man, I would surely be lost. Of that I have no doubt. If nothing else, at least we are on the outside looking in together, at least we have a love that is unshakeable, even through this insurmountable obstacle we’ve faced these past nine months. How long can I go on feeling this way? I can’t remember what it was like to smile a genuine smile, and I’ve certainly forgotten how it feels to be in love with life. Perhaps things will feel slightly better after Mother’s Day.

Here it is, nearly nine months in, and I am LOST. Lost, lost, LOST. The waves of grief have swelled to enormous heights again, and here I am, unsuccessfully treading water. I am coughing, sputtering, and thinking about not flailing about anymore in anguish, desperately trying to save myself. What would be the point? No matter how much ground I gain, I end up back here, carried away by the strong current of loss. I am tired. I am so tired. Does it get easier? I sure hope so. With Mother’s Day around the corner, it sure doesn’t feel any easier.