Hold On Darling One More Day

It has been eleven weeks and two days since I last held my daughter alive.  When you are pregnant everything is measured in weeks, and you are always very aware of the passage of time because you are asked all the time, “how many weeks are you?”  I have noticed most mothers start counting in months after their babies are born.  They will tell you how many months old their child is and usually take a special picture each month.  I have certainly taken even deeper note than usual on the 18^th of each month when Mira should be one month older, but for the most part, my world still is counted in weeks.  I have noticed this seems to be true for most loss Moms I talk to, at least for the first six months to a year.  Maybe it is because when you have a newborn to care for time goes so fast that you can only keep track of the months, but when you looking into an empty room that should have a newborn you feel every minute of every day.  At most points in the day, I could quickly tell you how many weeks, days and hours it has been since Mira was born.  I think most loss Moms could say the same thing.

You are like a raindrop that fell from a cloud

When you hit the pavement it was so loud

It was so loud, it was so loud, it was so loud

Even if I’m the only one who heard the sound

Now I’m begging heaven, climbing clouds

If only they could send you back now

Send you back now, Send you back now

Hold on Darling one more day you’ll wake up, wake up, wake up

And everything will be okay

You are like a snowflake that fell to the ground

Here for a moment but life melted you down

Melted you down, melted you down

And I am just a poor man holding out my hands

Counting the sheep until I sleep and see you again

See you again, see you again, see you again

Hold on Darling one more day you’ll wake up, wake up, wake up

And everything will be ok

(Jetty Rae)

I had to go to the doctor yesterday because I have the flu.  I was seeing a different doctor than normal because my usual doctor’s schedule was full (yay flu season).  I mentioned that the pain in my incision from the C-section was very bad when I coughed and asked if that was still normal at this point.  The doctor asked how long it had been since the surgery and look pretty surprised at how quickly I responded with “11 weeks and 1 day.”  Once he decided I needed some meds to control the coughing to prevent the incision from tearing, he asked me a perfectly normal question for someone almost 3 months post-partum being prescribed medication: “Are you breast feeding or bottle feeding?”  My breath caught for a moment, and then a took a deep breath and said, “my baby did not live.” 

That is the second time I’ve had to say those words this week.  I’ve had to say those words so rarely because of the choice Joe and I made to be open about our journey with Mira.  Everyone I regularly interact with already knows.  But as time goes on, even just 11 weeks, I start to meet new people who don’t know our story.  I start to be around people that I am not close with who may not have taken the time to learn Mira’s story and just remember seeing me pregnant.  I know I will get asked the question more often.  I will get the “Do you have children?” question that loss parents hate answering.  I have been asked only twice since I became pregnant.  Once by a very kind older man I met while still pregnant and I was able to simply answer, “Just this one on the way.”  He then told me that his deceased wife kept a list of all the pregnant women she met and prayed for the babies and moms.  He asked my name so he could continue her tradition.  I know this sweet man prayed for Mira and I for the next several months.

The second time was just a few days ago when I answered a phone survey (I know no one else takes those, but after being the one making the calls for my job while in college, I feel like a traitor to say no).  This time when I was asked, “Do you have any children?” I answered, “No living children.”  A small acknowledgement of my status as a mother. A small way to acknowledge Mira.   

Eleven weeks and three days.  The world moves forward.  You get less calls and messages.  You are expected to take care of yourself again, and shockingly, you do.  The closest friends and family still check in, but there is less for you to say.  It has all already been said.  Yes I am still grieving, yes I am still hurting, yes I am still crying, yes I am still broken.  But they already know that, seems like there is nothing else to say.  As the weeks go by, days at a time pass where no one says Mira’s name except Joe and I.  It is the way the world works.  I know it.  I expected it.  Everyone says that is the hardest time of grief, when everyone else starts moving forward.  But it still hurts.

Scratch that itch, God knows it hurts

God knows there are not words, God knows they run dry

Send your love, send it wide

Because I don’t know If I can go another mile

Flickering, oh my soul is withering

Your light is shining, but I don’t know if it’s getting in

Oh like kerosene

I burn like something you never seen

I am burning like kerosene

Did you see?

When I wept in my husband’s arms

I just want to see her, I just want my baby girl

Drink it up,  this sorrow is a cup

And my soul can’t get enough

(Jetty Rae)

In about two weeks, Joe and I should know the results of Mira’s autopsy and genetic testing.  We may then have a medical answer as to why she could not live here on Earth with us.  I am ready to hear those results.  Of course, they may not be able to tell us anything more.  More waiting to see.  More waiting for time to go by.  Angie Smith writes in I Will Carry You: “The truth is that to some degree, every day I have here is another day without her.  I don’t know when I will be able to see life any differently.”  I can’t tell you how true those words ring for me.  I can enjoy my work here on Earth, I can enjoy my husband, pets, friend, family, and job, but to some degree every day is another day without Mira. 

Angie Smith also writes, “I could have easily slipped into a life of resentment after we lost Audrey, sometimes even now I consciously have to fight that… I can either focus on what I have lost, or what I have gained, and I choose the later.  Sometimes I have to choose it a couple times an hour.” I have taken her perspective to heart.  I can choose to focus of the unreasonableness, the absolute bitterness, of having carried a child for 36 weeks to have her taken from you, or I can focus on the love she brought and the pain I took for her.  I choose the later.  I choose to remember that I took her pain for her, so she never had to feel it.  Sarah Philpott says in Loved Baby, “Heaven is a majestic place.  We can remain confident that although we are hurting, our child is not.  And wouldn’t any one of us make that sacrifice for any of our children?  Wouldn’t any of us bear pain so they bear none?”  Yes, yes I would bear all the pain in the world so Mira bears none.  I will choose to focus on that.  And if years after losing her daughter Angie Smith can still say she needs to make that choice a couple of times an hour, maybe it is okay that I have to consciously make the choice several times a minute right now. 

I chose to hear the ones who hold me up when others say thoughtless things, instead of focusing on the ones who hurt me.  I chose to feel the love from those who encourage me, instead of the feeling the bitterness towards those who have discouraged me.  I chose love.  I chose faith.  I chose Mira.