Time Marches On – My Grief Story 7 Years Later

As I contemplated writing this and really why I needed to “put it down on paper,” I realized that I am probably in the mindset of a person coming down from a high on drugs, thinking I can do fine without another “dose” but not at the stage where I am crashing yet. That is how this grief journey works or at least it’s been my experience. I’m able to write today, but tomorrow I may not be.

Yesterday, 7 years had passed since we had to say goodbye to Erin. I am sugarcoating that for you, and since I now feel guilty doing so let me just be honest. 7 years had passed since we watched our baby die, since we held her hand as she died, and since we were shattered into a million pieces that we will never put back together. It had been longer since we got to hear her voice or tell her how much we loved her since she was in an induced coma. I could never hope to communicate to you how that felt, and I really don’t want you to know. But I write this hoping that those of you who have experienced it know you aren’t alone, and those of you who haven’t will show some grace to your friends and loved ones who have.

We will never get over it, and we will never be the same. I have people close to me who have wondered when we will get over it. Wondered why we don’t do holidays anymore, wondered this and that. I also have people close to me who miss us but understand. Both of those things pain me. For the former, I have lost all respect for them and while I know it has to do with their own character limitations, I will never feel the same. For the latter, I have tremendous guilt about not seeing you more often and for the time I have lost with you that I will never get back. The irony eh? 🙁

Yesterday was actually maybe the “best” Angelversary day that Shaun and I have had yet. But before you erupt in gratitude or elation for that, just know that next year may turn out to be worse than all of them. That’s the thing about grief…you just never know.

We also tend to go into a state of numbness up until the day of any date – Angelversary, birthday, Christmas, etc. It’s a protection mechanism. The shit we feel is horrendous and we just can’t survive feeling it or reliving it for too long, so our emotional body has adapted. I had a few bad moments after turning out the lights last night, but I mentally said that I never want to forget but cannot think about this right now. And I took a second melatonin, and went to sleep.

Now I have to brace for my birthday. My last birthday with Erin, she and her daddy cooked me breakfast and I woke up to a plate with bacon in the shape of a #42. What a lovely surprise! Then the next birthday, we had her service. Before you ask – my birthday was already ruined so it wasn’t a big deal to put her service on that day. It was the first day they had, and I really couldn’t bear to add yet another calendar day to brace for each year.

Today I am still fairly numb, but actively looking for things to do and to take my mind off of having to think or feel. I have taken a 3+ mile walk in the hot sun, I’ve played and won more games of Candy Crush Soda and Bubble Witch 3 than I can count (and bought a bunch of in-game helpers to do so – I’ll be sorry when I have to pay the credit card bill), I’ve packed for my upcoming move, and I have yoga planned for later. I even went to WalMart and to the local coffee truck that came to our club house this morning. I’ve had an action packed day.

But I’ve also had a lot of people to think about me, and about Shaun, over the weekend. Thank you – you know who you are. You are the same people who have supported us throughout and we have a special place in our hearts for you and always will. Kindness is worth so much more than words can express, but since all we have are words right now, Thank You.

I also think of all of the other grieving mothers and fathers that I (now) know on this day and on your days too. If you don’t know, you won’t know we are out there. We wear a smile and try to enjoy our “new” lives, and we don’t open conversations with “my child died.” It would bum you out. You wouldn’t know what to say. We understand. Mostly.

On that note, I once told an extended relative who I recognize by face but forget his name, after seeing him at a funeral twice in a few months, that I had no children. I had just told him the story literally a few months prior. He is old. I didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to tell it again. Then I felt tremendously guilty. But I did what I had to do in the moment, and I’ve done it a few times more when it was just too much to go into at the time. I felt guilty again, but I live in survival mode most of the time.

Thank you for letting me talk about my journey. I love each and every one of you just because you are alive and here, and just because you are you.

<3