Thinking of all of those who have lost a child and remembering (as we do everyday) sweet Brielle.
Child loss
Happy Five Month’s Brielle
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.
Someone Else’s Story
Sometimes I look at these things I share and I feel as if I’m reading someone else’s story. Surely this isn’t my journey. Surely that person is not me. This person doesn’t look or speak like me, because I couldn’t possibly be going through something like this. And I’m perplexed. Because how could this happen?
I read all the books, took all the vitamins, ate organic, switched my beauty products to natural or organic products. I did it all right. I followed the rules. I prayed over Brielle’s future before she was even conceived. We planned Brielle’s timing three years in advance. I played the game everyone wants me to play, so who is that person saying she is me?
I’ve waited for Brielle my whole life. My whole life I’ve waited for this time of my life. I’ve always known that my purpose and path in life was not to begin until now. And I’ve waited. I’ve endured and I’ve suffered. When things in my teenage years broke me, I pushed through and survived so that I could be a mom. When gastroparesis took away everything I had and nearly took me with it, I pushed through so that I could be a mom. I have spent my whole life fighting for the right to be Brielle’s mother, to be a mom. Every decision and step I’ve taken in my life has been for this child. Some people search their whole lives for who they are, but I always knew. I always felt as if I was in someone else’s skin, biding my time until I could be myself, until I could be free to begin.
When I read these stories, see these pictures, I wonder who that person is. I have been through enough, so who is this person saying she is me? From the outside my life may have looked happy, but for the past fifteen years I have suffered, struggled, and fought for every bit of happiness I’ve had. I have not had reprieve in so long, this was to be my reprieve. My light in all of my darkness. So who is this woman who says this is my path? This was not to be. I was going to be happy. I was going to see my beautiful little girl, this was not to be my path. I don’t need an answer to why bad things happen to good people. I already know the answer. What I want to know, is will I only know the bad? Will everything that could go wrong in a life find me?
All I want is to see my little girl grow up, I want to see her smile, and live a long, healthy, happy life. She’s not supposed to know this sadness, she deserves a life of sunshine and laughter. If I had the power, I’d move heaven and earth and give it to her. I’d be whatever I needed to be to give her a beautiful and perfect future. I’d bend the will of man to ensure her happiness, all for her smile, all I want is a lifetime with her smile. I want to see wrinkles and smile lines. And I want to hear the laughter of her children. I want to live a lifetime with that future, a future with her.
Resentment Solves Nothing
Sometimes I want to hurt God the way he hurt me. I want to punish him for taking away Brielle. How could he hurt me that way? How could he let that happen? Have I not been good enough? Is this punishment or some cruel twist of fate? I’ll get so angry and I’ll have a desire to get even with God. I want to inflict the same damage he inflicted on me.
Of course then it hits me, he already suffered the same loss I did. And so I can’t get even. His son died so that Brielle and I could be together for eternity. And then I feel bad for God. I want to console him and help him through the pain. How horrible to sacrifice your son for generations of other children. To know that not all of your children will be with you for eternity. And I ache for him. I now can understand that pain and it makes me sad.
I realize how foolish I am and also how incredibly thankful I am. Losing Brielle has made me understand God so much better. He doesn’t seem quite as out of reach. Rather like an old friend that can hold my hand and offer me a shoulder to cry on. He’s already walked this path, he knows my pain, and he didn’t want this for me. I know he didn’t want this for Brielle or I. I can’t explain a relationship with God, but there is a comfort there that passes understanding.
And when I let my anger and hurt subside I feel his comfort and I understand his pain. The pain he must feel for me, to watch me suffer. He never wanted this for us. But humanity chose and continues to choose this path. A path of anger, bitterness, and hate. We all hurt others, whether overtly or inadvertently. I can’t blame God for this.
David and I have a genetic reason for this defect. Medical professionals have chosen for decades to dispose of these babies instead of learning about them. Due to ignorance and a general dislike of anencephalic babies, there is little known about them and little can be done for them. And those are facts of life. Facts we all have to navigate around.
I don’t know why God didn’t swoop in and save the day, but there must be a pretty good reason, because I know he doesn’t want me to hurt. And so while I’m angry with the situation and I get angry with the world, I am not angry with God. Because this isn’t God’s fault. This is the burden we all carry for living in a world that is less than perfect.
Comforting Others
One of my fears or anxieties that I’ve developed since Brielle has died, is the fear and knowledge that people will assume I’ve never had children. I’m young and I’m not toting around a baby. I find myself wondering how I’ll react when someone says, “Oh you’ll understand one day when you have kids.” Or “When do you plan on having children?”
Even before Brielle, these statements always sounded incredibly condescending or prying. And now I have to navigate them with an additional layer of pain. I’m really not sure how to properly respond. And I find that when I’m not prepared I generally blurt out whatever comes to mind. For instance, my first thought is to say, “I do have a child and she’s dead.” And that really isn’t the best way to handle a situation like that.
I did do well the other day (at least I think I did) when a waitress asked how old my daughter is. She asked because I mentioned I could finally eat rarer meat. I told her, “She would have been one month.” The waitress caught what I was saying and left it at that.
I find myself wondering how to freely talk about Brielle without upsetting other people with the reality that my daughter died. How to be polite about death. This really wasn’t something I ever envisioned having to think about or prepare for. This whole situation is strange. And I still want to talk about Brielle. But I don’t want to console others either. People get so upset when they find out and I just want to tell them about Brielle, I don’t want to have to tell them it’s okay and effectively make them feel better about the situation.
I wish we weren’t so uncomfortable about death. It happens all the time. And we (myself included) go about life acting like it doesn’t happen. Or it couldn’t possibly happen to us. We get uncomfortable around people who have just experienced it, like it’s contagious. And instead of accepting it, we push it away and when it does happen we’re left wondering how to handle it. And here I am, wondering how to make others comfortable about Brielle’s death. Strange isn’t it?
lovingbrielle.com 