I read this great letter that a woman named Joanne Cacciatore had written after her daughter Cheyenne was still born. It explained beautifully how different her life had become and that nothing would change it back or change the pain. How every holiday, event and activity was flavored with grief. It also touched on how hard it is to taste grief in everything you do and realize that after a time, even the people closest to you move on and stop living with the grief you shared with them for a time.
I remember very clearly, standing in the hospital room on May 20th. Izzy had been pronounced and I let them take her and put her back on the bed, as she had died in my arms. I thought I would never want to let her go, but after she was gone, her cheek was cold and hard, and I didn't want that to stay with me. It has, but at the time that was my thought. I walked over to the window and looked out. I remember being shocked at the cars driving by. How in the world could people be out and doing things when my daughter just died? Why has the world not stopped?
And 6 months later, that is still my question. I miss her every day. I ache to hold her every day. Every time I see a baby, I think of her. I need her, and I can't have her. No day is ever going to be normal for me, because I am always grieving. There are plenty of happy fun days, and I enjoy them tremendously. I smile and laugh, but it's always there. Every Christmas there will be an empty stocking. Every meal, an empty place. Every April 29th an unscheduled birthday party. Every mother's day, one less hand made gift from my children. Every day, one less person to read to and tuck into bed. No first steps, first kindergarten day, first kiss, first boyfriend, first date. Everything I do is lessened by her absence.
But that is my pain to own. I can't expect anyone to share it. I can't expect it to disrupt their lives. It is unrealistic, and unfair. I know that. I still find myself annoyed by it.
I remember very clearly, standing in the hospital room on May 20th. Izzy had been pronounced and I let them take her and put her back on the bed, as she had died in my arms. I thought I would never want to let her go, but after she was gone, her cheek was cold and hard, and I didn't want that to stay with me. It has, but at the time that was my thought. I walked over to the window and looked out. I remember being shocked at the cars driving by. How in the world could people be out and doing things when my daughter just died? Why has the world not stopped?
And 6 months later, that is still my question. I miss her every day. I ache to hold her every day. Every time I see a baby, I think of her. I need her, and I can't have her. No day is ever going to be normal for me, because I am always grieving. There are plenty of happy fun days, and I enjoy them tremendously. I smile and laugh, but it's always there. Every Christmas there will be an empty stocking. Every meal, an empty place. Every April 29th an unscheduled birthday party. Every mother's day, one less hand made gift from my children. Every day, one less person to read to and tuck into bed. No first steps, first kindergarten day, first kiss, first boyfriend, first date. Everything I do is lessened by her absence.
But that is my pain to own. I can't expect anyone to share it. I can't expect it to disrupt their lives. It is unrealistic, and unfair. I know that. I still find myself annoyed by it.
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