I speak for both my husband and I when I say we would give anything and everything for the outcome of our pregnancy with Lennox to have been different. To be in my third trimester, rather than nearing the third month of her being gone. Facing this reality is not easy. It is a devastation you could only fully understand if you’ve experienced this kind of loss.
I wish I didn’t know what any of this was like. I wish that I, too, couldn’t comprehend the feelings of having your baby’s life ripped away from you. I wish I was on the other side of things, and could be the one struggling to formulate proper words, rather than being the one struggling. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to bring your child into the world the same day that you said goodbye. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to meet with a funeral director and plan arrangements for your child. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to attempt (and fail) to compile words in an obituary that might adequately describe the meaning of your child’s short life. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to wonder, “where is the best spot for my daughter’s urn?” I wish I didn’t know what it was like to plant a smile on my face in front of people in the moments where it didn’t feel genuine. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to sometimes dread social situations, for fear of facing others after this loss. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to cry in the shower, on the way to work, in the quiet moments in our home when I was sure no one could see. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to have nightmares from child loss. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to feel guilt for happiness. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to have a barren nursery. I wish I didn’t know what it was like to have to talk to the sky when I want to tell my daughter I love her. I wish I didn’t know any of it.
But, the discrepancy in all of these wishes is that I do know these experiences, and I do know these feelings.
People ask me often: “how do you do it?” or “how are you so strong?”. These kinds of questions are challenging to properly answer. The truth is, I don’t know. There is no secret; no tactic I have, or special skill, or coping mechanism. In fact, I would say most often there is is a lack of any of those things. You simply learn to endure the unthinkable and face each day, because it’s the only option you have. You must learn to pick up the shattered pieces and put them together one by one. You and your spouse learn to hold one another up while trying to hang on for yourself at the same time.
You do it because no matter how devastating it is, this is the hand that you were dealt. I often answer those questions plainly with this: we didn’t have a choice. Does it suck? One thousand percent, yes. Do I wish that I could have opted out of this and my life could have looked differently? Every single day.
Somehow, though, as the sun continues to rise and set, you make it- even if barely. In the deepest sorrow, you manage to see the day through. Some days feel long; you simply want them to end. But still, you keep going. You wake up and face another day, whether it be bad or it be a little less than bad, because you’ve got to. You have people surrounding you, cheering you on that need you. And more than that, you’ve got an angel shining down. An angel that believes in you, and one that you want to make proud. It is a convoluted notion to one day find yourself living for someone who isn’t physically here. It breaks your heart and fills it up, all at once.
I think part of it shows the resiliency of human nature; the ability God gives us through Him to keep going in the midst of suffering. Even when our cup is drained and our endurance has lapsed. We are somehow given the strength and the courage to face another day.
You learn that the loss of your baby is the beginning of a new life for you, although one you never imagined or wanted. For those who have had to bear life and witness their death in the same instance, you understand this. You have come face to face with the fragility of this life, and the impact is irrevocable.
You learn that grief can also be love. You learn that time may not heal, rather the grief becomes manageable. You learn to live more tenderly and love more gently. You learn that in the most tremendous heartache, you can find purpose. You learn to intangibly feel your baby: in the sun, in the wind, in happenings around you. Because, although you would trade your very life for theirs, you know they are with you in these ways until you can meet again.
And, when that day comes, I will never let my baby go.