Gracie is still on my mind every day, of course. I miss her. All sorts of silly things remind me of her. On nearly a daily basis Eli randomly starts talking about her, seemingly out of nowhere. Most days I don't cry. Most days the pain is dulled by the passage of time and the many distractions that surround me. That in itself makes me sad, though. Sometimes I wish I cried for her more. When I do cry, it feels good. It feels good to feel something of her again, even if it hurts. When I want to cry, my go-to trigger is to think back to the end of our day with her, when the time came to surrender her tiny body to the funeral director. I still remember every detail. I remember the way we carefully arranged her tiny dress and her necklace, and the difficulty I had in finding a way to wrap her tiny body in the big fluffy blanket that we had bought for her final rest without losing her in the folds. I remember our nurse coming in to let us know that the funeral director had arrived, and the way that he quietly and ceremoniously entered the room and introduced himself, and waited silently for us to say our tearful goodbyes. I remember gently resting her in my husband's arms and watching as he cried over her, whispered to her, kissed her, and let her go. I can still see the funeral director in his black suit turning and walking away with our girl - it's like I have a video saved in my mind that I can call up on-demand. That moment in time truly defined the term "heartbroken", and reflecting back upon it will always break my heart all over again, every time.
I'm starting to stumble upon some strange emotions that I've been left with in the wake of this experience. Many of them are illogical (as emotions often are), but that doesn't make them any less real or powerful. For one thing, I'm left with a sense of failure. There isn't anything I could have done to prevent the chromosomal anomaly that sealed her fate, yet it feels as though my body failed her. When I was pregnant with my son, I had this sense of pride and accomplishment in knowing that my womb was the safe, warm, nurturing environment that was his home for all those months. As long as he wasn't strong enough to survive out in the world, I kept him safe and warm - allowed him to grow into the beautiful boy that he was becoming. While I was pregnant with Gracie I did feel that way - maybe even more so than with Eli. Because I knew that she couldn't ever survive in the outside world, my body felt that much more important and strong. Living within my body was the only way she would ever live - it was her life support. But I lived with the lingering fear that she was in pain. I couldn't know for sure, but I feared that my womb was not the warm, safe, comfortable place that I hoped it was. Then, when I developed preeclampsia, my body quite literally failed her. It couldn't sustain both her life and mine much longer. I was forced to evict her from her home, and remove the life support that had been standing between her and certain death for nearly 24 weeks. As you may recall, this was my greatest fear - being forced to induce. I feared that I would carry guilt. Yet it isn't guilt that I carry - I know that I didn't have a choice and that there is nothing I could have done to change any of it, from her diagnosis to my induction. I just feel inadequate. If it weren't for my having had a healthy pregnancy that did sustain and protect a life for 40 weeks, I would probably be having a really hard time with the idea of ever bearing a child again.
One emotion that I do not seem to carry is regret, and for that I am so very grateful. I have my husband to thank for that, in large part. When we first learned of Gracie's diagnosis and I began to look into what things we might want to prepare in advance, I quickly developed a laundry list of ideas and to-do's. Ben struggled with all of that. All I wanted to do in our free time was talk about those things, and all he wanted was not to talk about them. In that phase of things, I wanted to prepare and plan and do everything that we could. But when she arrived and things started happening, I began to shrink away. I didn't that I could handle doing things myself. It was Ben who made sure that he did every single thing he could do for her between her birth and her burial - he shrunk from nothing. He bathed her. He did her handprints and footprints. He insisted on going to the funeral home to check on her one last time before her casket was sealed and encouraged me to go too (and I will never be able to thank him enough for having had the opportunity to snuggle my girl one last time, even though I didn't think that I wanted to). He was brave enough to commit to writing and reading a eulogy at her funeral (a task that I, once again, didn't think I could handle, but which turned out to be incredibly powerful and fulfilling). He climbed down into the ground in his suit and tie and physically laid her to rest with his own hands. Together, we ensured that we did everything we could think of to prepare for her, to maximize our time with her, and to honor her.
I admit that there are little things that I wish I had done differently. I wish I had gotten up out of bed to help Ben bathe her, or at least stood nearby and watched. I have photos of it, but I was just sitting in bed across the room while it was happening. I also wish that I had held her more. We had many visitors - all of whom I am so appreciative of and will never forget - and while they were there I didn't really feel a sense of urgency about holding her. I knew that we would have our alone time later (and had already had some alone time, obviously), and I wanted everyone else to experience her. But I suppose this particular "regret" is inevitable. No matter how much I held her, it couldn't have been enough. Last but not least, I wish that I had saved the first hospital blanket that she was wrapped in. I have her beautiful crocheted blanket with her name on it, which she was wrapped in for most of the day. Strange as this may sound, I love that it still contains evidence of her (traces of dried blood for areas where her skin had begun to break down). It is strangely comforting. But that also makes it a sacred piece of her - I am terrified of ever doing anything with it that might damage it in any way. I just wish I had another blanket that held her, that I could use pieces of for different memorial ideas I've seen since losing her. It's not a huge deal, but it's something I wish I'd done.
As time wears on and our experience drifts further into the past and the pain becomes less intense, it is getting easier. The loss never changes - it never gets less awful. The reality is that we buried our child. That never goes away. But it is getting easier to live with that reality, as the pain dulls and the reality becomes a part of me. You sort of internalize it as you talk about it and grieve over it, until it is just another thread in the fabric of your being. Initially it's more of a knife in your soul - an acute insult that sends you into a psychological tailspin and you nearly bleed out from the damage. The grieving process, for me at least, has been a process of accepting it all as a part of my life. I think you just can't heal that stab wound until you accept it. It continues to bleed unless you're willing to let it scar down and heal. Letting it heal, though, requires that you release your anger and bitterness, accept that there isn't a good answer to any of your questions, and just let it be. It happened, it was real, and it will always be a part of you. In the wake of such a tragedy, your options are simple: Refuse to accept it and live with the anger and bitterness, which will ultimately eat away at your soul, or Accept it and use your energy for more positive endeavors like healing and honoring your child. It's not that it's a simple choice that you make in a single instant and it magically becomes your reality - it's a direction that your grief evolves toward, and you have to choose which direction you will allow that grief to carry you. It looks different ways for different people, and it isn't always a straight and narrow path - it often veers off course. Sometimes it's hard work, forcing your thoughts in a particular direction.
But when my thoughts become negative and I find myself asking "why" and other such nonsense, I remind myself that those thoughts don't honor my sweet Gracie and the legacy she left behind. She taught us a new kind of love and a new level of gratitude. She didn't come into our lives to show us just how harsh and unfair this cruel world can be. Quite the contrary, she was a tangible representation of beauty in tragedy. That may sound like a corny cliche that I use to make myself feel better about my loss, but I assure you - in my life, that lesson is as real as she was. It affects my perspective every day. It was a revelation for me, and I haven't looked at life the same way since. I didn't really understand or believe that I could be blessed through the loss of my own child, or feel grateful at the end of that day, or go on to love and trust my God so much more fiercely than before. It has left me feeling more free and hopeful than ever before in my life. I don't have to fear... well... anything. Anyone who is even peripherally aware of the Bible has heard verses about "not fearing", but none of that ever penetrated my heart and permeated my life like this until Gracie. She was my "sign" that we all ask God for - my "proof" that He means what He says. And He doesn't say that if we follow Him we will live a life of ease, protected from the evils of the world - He says that if we follow Him, we will never face any of it alone. I will forever be grateful that I can live without fear now - knowing that no matter what this fallen world has in store for my life, God will be right there not only to carry me through it, but to bless me through it. Nothing will ever be the same for me thanks to my tiny baby girl, who never even breathed a breath on this Earth.
Photo courtesy of Jamie Roberts, Roberts Photographers
No comments:
Post a Comment