We all have them.
The day the doctor told you there was no heart beat.
The day you took him off life support.
The day you found your baby not breathing.
The day you thought your world ended.
Your baby’s angel day. Your baby’s death day. That “other anniversary.” Whatever you might call it.
Today is that day for me. December 6, 2009 I was nursing my daughter in the early morning hours only to look down to a non-breathing baby.
Three years later and still this time of year weighs so heavily on me.
I find myself watching television and fine one moment and the next so consumed with grief that my chest hurts and I feel strangled.
I find myself hurting so much, but trying to keep it inside. After all, it’s been a “whole three years.” If you aren’t a loss mom, how could you ever begin to understand what this time of year truly feels like?
We run through the days, reliving it all minute by minute.
For me it starts around the beginning of November. I remember what I bought from the stores to prepare for my new baby. I remember what the weather was like on my baby shower.
And then the minute-by-minute flashbacks happen. All the beautiful and horrible moments come flooding.
But, it’s also good, because more than any other time of year, in November and early December, I feel closer to her. I feel closer to the time I spent with her.
How can you possibly explain that to someone that’s never been here?
I become manic, planning something to remember her. Then the actual day rolls around and I feel paralyzed. I want the world to remember her today, but also want to crawl in a hole and be left alone at the same time. I need all the love and notes and flowers and remembrances but I also need to be all by myself. It’s a paradox like none other.
I like that there’s no word for the day a baby dies because no words could possibly explain it.
I’m sorry all of you know exactly what I mean. I’m sorry you get it at all.
But, I’m glad I’m here with you. I’m so glad you’re here.
Tomorrow on December 7, the weight will start to lessen. I’ll begin to breath normally again. I’ll be able to hold her close, and somehow juggle the horrific stuff to the back of my mind, most of the time.