It’s Been a Little Over a Year
It’s been a year and eight days since we lost Sephy.
I haven’t written. I haven’t chased the grief. And yet, it finds me.
At the back of a plane. Sitting next to a stranger. Dashing the tears away as the flight attendants go through the safety instructions. Coming back from a long trip that would not have happened if things had gone just a little differently a year ago.
And that’s the thing. When you lose a child there seems to be almost an obligation to lose the rest of your life too. How else can you feel close to the one you’ve lost? If you’re out there in the world, touching things, tasting things, doing things, you’re that much farther away from the one weight you truly want to feel in your arms. It feels like doing anything other than fading away is a betrayal.
I still struggle with this. Am I sad enough? Has my life been rocked enough? If I am able to get up and move on with my life after such a devastating loss is there something wrong with me? Some call it strength, but it feels as though there’s something missing. I haven’t fed the wolves of grief and their howls are quiet. Shouldn’t they still be overwhelming? Shouldn’t I still be chasing after that ghost? Am I a bad mother for letting my daughter go?
I think that the process of creating a child produces energy. It builds up in you, stored away in your heart and your soul and your bones and your muscle. It’s there for you to draw upon as you deliver your child. It’s there for you as you complete the grueling task of readying this precious new thing for the world. It buzzes and crackles, giving you the fortitude necessary for the impossible task of motherhood. It doesn’t leave you, no matter how old your child grows.
When you lose your baby that energy is still there. It hums and thrums as you look at that still face. It pops and cracks as you give that weight away, look at the tiny box in front of the tombstone with that carefully chosen name and single date on it. It doesn’t disappear with your baby because it is not your baby. It is you.
And it can destroy you, I think. It has to go somewhere. Here, I think, is the choice all of us mothers of lost babies face. Do you hold on to that precious, unworldly spark, or do you let it go? Do you clench in, tighter and tighter, or do you channel it?
I believe you need to send it outwards. It hurts, and it’s hard, but if you hold it tight it will destroy you. It’s too much for one person to bear. And as much as you want to give it to your precious little one, you can’t. You have to direct it elsewhere. The people around you. Your children. Your partner. Yourself. Most importantly yourself.
And it feels selfish. I know. I struggle with that every day. But this is a thing that destroys us. That urge to mother, that connection with our lost children, that unspent energy, believe me when I say that these are good things. But like all good things, they can go bad. They can send you leaping into the grave after your baby. They can leave you a numb, traumatized shell. They can take away your life. You’ll feel closer to your baby, I know this, but it will destroy you in the process.
So I channel it. That energy, it’s still in me. Now that I have wrapped my hands around it, sunk my fingers in deep, it pushes me. At the base it helps me to take care of myself. Eat right. Exercise. Sleep. Then it encourages me to take care of the people I love. Cooking meals. Service. A chat. A smile. And at the very edges, where it’s hot and crackling painful blue, it draws me to a place of acceptance. That energy, so painstakingly gathered and so breathlessly carried, allows me to see my life for what it is: a life without my precious daughter here in a physical form, but nonetheless a life filled with purpose, fulfillment, and love.
I miss you, my daughter, and I still will never say your lost is a gift. But it happened. You were here, and now you aren’t. I don’t know if my life would have been better with you in it, but I know that even with you gone it still has worth.
gummygunk
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
stormborns
