On Saturday night, laying in bed, I realized I hadn't cried the entire day. And thinking about that made me cry. Which honestly, was a bit of a relief.
There are those tears. There are those tears that connect me to my daughter.
That's the weird thing about better days. There's guilt sitting right there.
The better days, the days I can breathe a little bit more, eat a little bit more, and like Saturday, spend time with an old friend and engage in somewhat normal conversation for short periods of time... those days hurt. They feel like they bring me further from Lydie. Sometimes I don't want to feel better. I want all my pain. I want to feel connected to my daughter. I don't want to be further from Lydie.
I don't want to have fun. I don't want to laugh or smile or feel like the world continues to turn.
Moving forward, moving forward without her, seems like a betrayal.
I've been caught up in a new blog www.bythebrooke.blogspot.com. Brooke has an eerily similar story, losing her daughter to stillbirth at 34 weeks. And sometimes I feel like she gets inside my head and expresses my own emotions better than I do. When she was almost 8 weeks out from losing Eliza, which is this very week for me, she writes that she has faith that one day, leading a full and happy life will feel like a tribute to rather than a betrayal of her daughter.
I keep going back to that. And just like Brooke, I'm not there yet. But it sounds like a beautiful hope for the future.
Right now, I'm still wondering why it couldn't have been me instead of
Eliza. Would that it had been me, instead of her, you know? Right now
the only thing that could make me happy is to have her back with me.
Unless I can have my baby here with me, where she belongs, there's no
fixing this or making it better.
But even as I weep and fast and gnash my teeth and shake my fists and
curse the world and everyone in it, I can't entirely ignore that quiet
assurance, deep in my gut, that says some day it will get better. I will get better. Love will come into my life again and light up the darkness and make it sparkle.
Lord knows I'm not there yet. I still have a lot of doubts as to when (and sometimes, yes, if)
it will happen. But alongside these doubts, I am clinging to the faith
that some day I will get there. Some day, I will laugh without feeling
guilty or conflicted about it. Some day I will no longer walk around
with the weight of suppressed tears in my chest. I will be able to look
forward to the future. I will be truly grateful for the many good
things I still have in my life. I will love another child. And one
thing I know for certain is when I do these things, that love--all of
it--will be a tribute to Eliza.