It’s been twenty weeks since Brielle died. It’s been forty weeks since Brielle was diagnosed with anencephaly. She’s on my mind constantly. Sometimes I’m numb. And all I can think of is her existence. Sometimes I want to curl in a ball and cry my eyes out. Sometimes I feel like this was all a dream. Her life was so short, our time together was so short, and I feel lost.
I’m a mom, but my daughter is missing and it feels so strange. So wrong. Empty. I can’t fully handle the weight of her loss. If I let myself think about her absence, my chest tightens and I have trouble breathing. I need to hold her. It’s not supposed to be like this. Babies aren’t supposed to die. They’re supposed to go home. They’re supposed to have loving families. They’re supposed to grow up. They’re supposed to do a lot of things, but supposed to rarely happens. I don’t know why I thought my baby would be exempt.
Brielle had such a positive impact. She changed my life. Life with her was beautiful and I treasured every moment. But in the midst of my grief I have trouble finding the light. Life feels like it’s swallowing me whole and how do I talk about that? I don’t want to drag others into my grief.
David and I have lost so much in the past twenty weeks. I’ve kept quiet about it, because I’m not sure what’s right to share anymore. I’ve lost my confidence. I feel off. Like I’ve been thrown into a hamster wheel and shoved down a hill. I feel battered, disoriented, and lost. I have always shared my true feelings and thoughts, but now I don’t know how to.
I’m extremely introspective and introverted. Because of this, I’m not skilled with verbal communication, at least in regards to my feelings. I write, because I want people to know the truth. I write because Brielle deserved to be loved and known (and she was, she was loved more than I could have ever hoped or imagined).
But now? I don’t know how to be honest and please others. I do not please others at the expense of myself, but I will endure suffering to spare others from pain or heartache. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of writing about the pain I’m feeling now. I’m afraid of sharing the grief David and I deal with. I don’t like being afraid. I want to work through my pain, but I don’t know how to. I don’t want to taint Brielle’s beautiful memory with my embittered grief. And all I can think is, “It shouldn’t be like this.”
Brielle would be five months today. I can’t even imagine how much brighter the world would be if she had survived. Life would be wildly different.