Today is September 25th. I have started my day by sending my daughter off to school, my hubby off to work, and then, once the house has quieted from the bustle of the morning, I turned my attention to the heaviest task I have on the schedule today. Grief.
I’m sorry to all of you out there who are following my blog for Bikini Body Mommy purposes. This post will be a bit of a downer, but I feel like I must write or I’ll explode. I may explode anyway. You see, today, 6 years ago, I gave birth to a little girl who never made it home, who never even made it into my arms, even though she lived for 17 days, until I held her for about 3 measly minutes while the tiny bit of life she had left drained away. It is a long story, many of my friends have read Skye’s story.
I have been able to grieve over the years, sometimes in the background, sometimes very in your face for months. I have had times where it lingered quietly and others where it filled every nook and corner of my life for months, days of not being able to do anything but cry and sleep and then whole months where I seemed and felt quite normal. But grief is a funny thing. You never really stop grieving, you never get “over it”. People think you do when you get quiet for long periods and no longer talk about it, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about my daughter and wish for her and ache for her and wonder about who she would be. She changed my life in so many ways, so many amazing ways, but the grief I have had to bear in connection to her has also changed me. Permanently.
I will never see a red headed girl, whether a baby, a child, or a young adult without thinking about my daughter and wondering what she would look like now, at 6. Every time I see a crunchy leaf fall from a tree and add itself to the multitude on the ground I wonder how it would have been to rake them up and see her jump into them. I always bake a cake for my kids’ birthdays with a theme they pick or that they are interested in and I wonder today, would I be making a Hello Kitty cake, or a Frozen cake, or would she be like me and shy away from the popular things and characters and go for something like butterflies or lady bugs? What flavor would she want? What present would she be hoping for? What would her smile look like, would she be missing a tooth by now? What would her laugh sound like as she got off the school bus and ran in the house to tell me about her day?
Most days in the last couple years I’ve been able to be at peace with her not being earthside. I’ve been able to quietly long for her and look forward to a day when we meet again. But today? Today it all just sucks. It sucks and it isn’t fair. There are so many neglected children out there, so many that are abused and unwanted and aborted, and I wanted my daughter. I planned her, my husband and I set out to create life and anticipated a child born into a loving union.
My daughter died. My baby girl will never tell me which season is her favorite, what she wants to be when she grows up. I will never get to see her personality bloom, find out her interests, see her play and bicker with her sister and brother. All I have of her are a few pictures, a few video clips, and a few memories. And all those are mostly very painful.
So, yeah, it all sucks. That is all I can say. If you have never lost a child, you don’t completely know what I’m talking about, and if you have, I wish with everything in me that you didn’t know what I am feeling. It is a very unique loss, not just of a person, but of every hope and dream for them, of every memory they never got to make, of every milestone they never got to pass, it is a loss of what might have been and there is far to little of what actually was. It isn’t fair.
So, I guess I will just wipe my tears, get up here in a minute and start my exercise today and my house chores and take care of my family and continue on with all the little things that help me appear to be a normal person. I am anything but normal and it will never be ok. Grief never ends. You learn to live with it and function with it, much as you would learn to function after losing an arm or a leg, but if anyone ever expects you to be “over it” or says it gets better or that time heals it, they are wrong. I will never be over losing my child. How can I be? How could anybody be?
I love you Skye, I’ll say it for the hundred-thousandth time because now it is all I have. I miss you, baby, until we reach….