Still Standing Magazine, an organization dedicated to supporting
parents who have experienced pregnancy and infant loss, encouraged their followers
to share what 24 hours in their life looked life through pictures on Instagram.
I don’t have an Instagram account, and don’t take a lot of
pictures, but I do enjoy writing, so I thought I would participate by doing a
blog entry about 24 hours in my life. I
am just going to walk through what would be an average a day, not an especially
uplifting day or an especially hard day, just a day that shows my ‘new normal.’
My day starts much the same as it did 2 years ago, my alarm
goes off. Except now, I struggle to wake
up even enough to hit snooze. The
medication for my PTSD keeps the nightmares and flashbacks under control but
makes me so foggy in the morning. I’ve
never been a morning person, but now I have learned to set my alarm for at
least an hour before I need to be out of bed.
Next, I get out of bed, and start the morning routine by getting ready
and showering, making sure to angerly stare at the extra weight, that probably
has a lot more to do with grief binge eating than baby weight. After I’m dressed and ready to go, I carefully
put on my wedding ring, my grandmother’s ring, and Mira’s footprint ring and
then think through my day to decide if it is safe to wear one of my Mira
necklaces, or if it would be too likely to get broken. Before going downstairs, I stop in front of
my dresser and gently touch the glass orb containing a small part of Mira’s
ashes.
Downstairs, I decide if my stomach can handle breakfast or
not. Usually not. I grab my purse and keys and say good-by to
the dog and cats. In the car, I have to
make a choice. Should I turn on the
radio or my phone to some random music and try to think of nothing? Or should I
put on my Mira playlist and give in to having some time with her after spending
the last hour trying to focus on starting my day? Both choices hurt. I just need to decide which would hurt less
today.
Once at work, its time to smile and say good morning to
everyone in the office. I do my best to
not look fake and remember to make eye contact, smile, and ask about people’s
weekends, things that used to come naturally, but now I have to tell myself to
do. I sit at my desk and take care of
preparing for my day, fighting hard against a level of distraction I didn’t
used to have. I pause often to look at Mira
picture, touch her ring, or just think of her, not on purpose, it just
happens. Then I go about my day seeing
clients. This is when my new normal self is at her best. No matter what happens in my life, I still
care about these families and making sure I give them the best care I can. I can focus on their needs and rely on my social
work and ABA instincts to take over.
But the new Moms I am just meeting will probably ask me, “Do
you have children?” I will have an invisible
battle with myself that takes only a second, but feels longer as I remember how
to answer, with a “I don’t have any living children, but I had a daughter who
passed away.” I remember to say it calmly
and gently, as I can’t ever answer ‘no’ to that question, but I also would
never put my pain on the families I work with.
I have learned to answer the question in a tone that is not cold, but
does not invite more questions or comments, and doesn’t make anyone
uncomfortable.
As a drive between clients, I struggle with the grief and pain
I pushed aside while with the family. It
all hits me in the car as I drive alone.
And again, I have to choose: do I listen to music for Mira that I can
relate to a feel deeply, or something else and try to push the pain away? I spent 8 months never being alone as Mira
grew. I spent the time in the car
singing to her and talking to her. Now I
drive between clients alone and missing her.
At the end of the work day I head home, exhausted from the
day, even it was an easy one, actually, ESPECIALLY if it was an easy, slow
day. I get home filled with a need, an uncontrollably
strong need, to DO something, but too tired and scattered feeling to do the
things I should (cleaning, cooking, laundry).
No, I feel compelled to do something for/with Mira. Sometimes I can satisfy this need by doing a quick
craft, blog entry, reading an article by another loss mom, or sitting with
Mira. Sometimes the urge to ‘do
something’ can’t be satisfied and grows until I feel like I am crawling out of
my skin, because I know what I really want to be doing is caring for my
daughter after I picked her up from day care.
My new normal hates this part of the day the most.
I cook dinner. Joe
and I talk about our days, both trying our best to say a few good things that
happened even on the days that Mira’s absence feels the strongest. We find ways to encourage each other and let
the other grieve. We laugh together, we
cry together, we snap at each other, and apologize to each other. We go about the evening together, like anyone
else, watching TV, playing a game, playing with the pets, talking about our
days, etc. But every once in a while, we
pause and say, “I miss her so much,” squeeze the other’s hand and push
forward. We talk about our memories with
her as the come up. We don’t shy
away. We don’t dwell.
Eventually we get ready for bed. Joe is always sure to tell me what a good
mother and wife I am, even on days I am sure I don’t deserve it. I pray for peace when it seems impossible to
feel. I thank God for the people in our
lives that supported us that day, doing my best to remember each one. Mira fills my thoughts as I try to clear my
mind to sleep. I wonder what she is
doing. I wonder what she would look like
now. I wonder what if, what if, what
if. I very actively force my mind to think of
something else, do math in my head, count, anything, so I can fall asleep and
be ready to fight the alarm again in 8 hours.
This is a typical day in my new life, post infant loss. Some days are much better, filled with peace
and love and acceptance. They are rare,
but I hold on to them when they occur to remind myself healing is possible. Some days are much worse, filled with triggers
that cause flashbacks and rushes of emotion to work through. All days are filled with this strange
realization that I have to get to know myself all over again at 28, because I suddenly
changed into someone new. I have to
learn this new person’s strengths and weaknesses, her boundaries, and accept
her faults and learn what I like about her. It is a long, slow, process, but all day are also
filled with love for Mira, so it is worth it.
I would rather have this post loss ‘new normal’ life than to have not
been Mira’s mother at all.
Breathe in, breathe out,
Tell me all of your doubts,
And everybody bleeds this way,
Just the same.
Breathe in, breathe out,
Move on and break down,
If everyone goes away I will stay.
We push and pull,
And I fall down sometimes,
I'm not letting go,
You hold the other line.
Cause there is a light in your eyes, in your eyes.
Hold on hold tight,
From out of your sight,
If everything keeps moving on, moving on,
Hold on hold tight,
Make it through another night,
And everyday there comes a song with the dawn,
We push and pull and I fall down sometimes,
I'm not letting go,
You hold the other line.
Cause there is a light, in your eyes, in your eyes.
There is a light, in your eyes, in your eyes.
Breathe in, and breathe out.
Breathe in, and breathe out.
Breathe in, and breathe out.
Breathe in, and breathe out.
Look left look right,
To the moon in the night.
And everything under the stars is in your arms.
Cause there is a light, in your eyes in your eyes.
There is a light, in your eyes, in your eyes.
There is a light, in your eyes, in your eyes.
There is a light, in your eyes, in your eyes.
(Mat Kearney)
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