Do you ever have one of those dreams where you’re running from something, and you’re pushing your legs as hard as you can, and your lungs are working as hard as they can, and yet somehow you’re barely moving, and the bad guy keeps getting closer and closer, and then suddenly…you wake up, out of breath and in a panic, only to find you haven’t moved anywhere at all?
That’s what my life the last two, nearly three, months has felt like.
As if, suddenly, every single clock in my world came to a screeching halt, but everyone else’s kept moving. And now it takes everything in me to try—and fail—to keep up. I keep pushing and pushing and trying SO HARD to keep running, but every time I look over my shoulder, grief is right there behind me, preparing to drag me under.
Somehow, nearly three months have gone by without my daughter here. In pregnancy terms, an entire trimester. The same amount of time she spent changing from poppy-seed-size to orange-size, I’ve spent curled into a ball, weeping.
How many more months do I have left? Will I spend all of them weeping? How have I made it this far when I wasn’t sure how I would survive those first twenty-four hours? Why do I feel so guilty for surviving?
I’ve come to the conclusion that hurts quite like losing the soul of someone you loved more than life itself, but never got the chance to meet. Nothing hurts like losing someone you created out of your own flesh and blood. Nothing hurts like creating a life within your own body, and knowing that that life died within your own body. Nothing hurts like being that close to death and yet remaining among the living. Nothing hurts like being forced to walk the earth a living zombie because your baby died inside of you. Nothing hurts like giving birth to that silent baby, and nothing hurts like the fear of every day that comes after. Nothing hurts like saying to your husband on a warm, sunny day in June, “I don’t want to bury my daughter today,” but knowing you have to do it anyway. Nothing hurts like doing it anyway.
Since Eleanora died, everything in my life feels sharper now, clearer. All of my senses seem heightened somehow and, despite the horrible brain fog and forgetfulness that’s come with my grief, I fee hyperaware of everything. I cling to happy moments and hope desperately that they’ll last a lifetime. I try to ingrain the images of people’s smiles and the sounds of their laughter into my brain so that I can recall them over and over and over. So that I can remember what that warmth feels like.
I’ve decided that no one appreciates life the way that someone who has endured a tragedy appreciates it. Somewhere in the last few days, I heard, “The people who smile the biggest and laugh the loudest are usually the saddest.” I think that’s true, and I think it’s because we’re trying so desperately to hold on to the things that help us to close our eyes against our sadness, even for just a moment. We’re trying so desperately to remember what beautiful things are, what the world looks like to someone who isn’t viewing it through shattered lenses.
Today, my Nana—who is an absolute angel on earth and one of my absolute favorite people—and I grabbed a Chinese food lunch after her dentist appointment. Her smile and her laugh are some that I try so hard to retain in my memory. At Eleanora’s funeral, I leaned in to give her a hug, and through tears, I said, “I’m going to need you a lot this summer.” She said, “I know. And I’m going to be here. 24/7.” I looked down at my Papa, who by that point was in a wheelchair and hardly able to even speak. His heart was broken, and he was in between worlds himself. He died two weeks later. I know Nana understands. We are two grieving souls in this together.
After our meal, I opened up my fortune cookie: “You will soon be reminded of the beauty of simplicity.”
I think and I hope that is true.
The beauty of the simplicity of a lunch with your Nana who understands. The simplicity of good watermelon in the summertime. The simplicity of a dog who just wants to snuggle on the couch. The simplicity of a wonderful, quiet husband who is there every morning with warm coffee and a smile. The simplicity of a quaint little nursery, waiting for a someday baby. The simplicity of writing this on my phone at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, hoping and hoping and hoping.
