Laying in the hospital bed before delivery, at some point it hit me. My son was dead. The thought was so heart wrenching that I couldn't stop myself from throwing up. I had forgotten about that, but in an instant I remember as if it had happened 5 minutes ago.
The night of Carter's birth, everything happened so fast, and so slow at the same time. I remember his birth so vividly, but the hours between arriving at the hospital and delivery are spotty, as is the rest of our stay.
Little tidbits of those 36 hours come back to me when I least expect them. Snapping a picture of Livie on my phone a couple of days ago, I realized that there were pictures of Carter on my phone.
His pictures, taken shortly after birth, stopped me in my tracks. Carter? On my phone? How did they get there? And then I remembered. I still hadn't realized that we would have a whole day with him, and I wanted to make sure I had a picture of him. So I asked for my phone, the only camera I had, and handed it off to have pictures taken.
I dread the day when I am in a client's office and something, seemingly innocent, brings back a memory from that day. I won't be able to stop the tears.
I am amazed at the ways grief can manifest itself. I am exhausted, and my whole body aches. Little things become huge ordeals and I have no patience. And even when I laugh and smile and try to move on, the grief is right there, just below the surface, waiting to rise up and make itself known.
Many times over the past seven months I have been told how strong I am. And while I know it is said with the best of intentions, to be honest, I am sick of hearing it. I am not strong. I am heartbroken and vulnerable and weak. When I was pregnant with a sick husband and a two year old, I carried on because I had to. And there were (many) times I could have done better than I did. But I moved forward, just like anyone else would have.
And then, when October 18th came and went, I most definitely wasn't strong. I keep moving forward because I have to. There is no choice. This isn't a path I chose.
Taking the words of a good friend: I am not strong, I am trying to learn how to live with a piece of my soul missing.
In the spirit of moving forward, we decorated for Christmas today. Without a stocking for Carter.
And so, just like that, it's gone:
Dear Becky,
ReplyDeleteI want to tell you that you are wrong, wrong, wrong. You do not have to carry on. You could curl up in a ball and say this is too hard, I give up.
I have seen someone do this. Her older children were left to pretty much fend for themselves. It has been terribly difficult for them.
I believe that you carry on, that you do what needs to be done for your husband and daughter because you have a love for your family that will not allow you to abandon them.
This doesn't mean that you don't have times of abject misery, that every day you are perfect.
Carter is a loved member of your family. He will not be forgotten, especially by his mother.
Cindy Laszewski
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