The Depth of My Pain

Its Labor Day weekend. I should be savoring my last days of maternity leave before returning to work on Tuesday. I should be hosting a bar-be-que/birthday party for my dad & best friend Grainne. Instead I attend church, visit the cemetary and try to make sense of this life without my child.

My grief scares me. Its a deep dark place where I can get lost in my tears. If I allow myself to really feel, it is an emptiness that makes my chest hurt. I can see nothing but my own sadness and desperation. This place is hopeless and empty, so full of despair its frightening. I wonder how I can go on another 40+ years like this. How can I look forward at what is left of my life, knowing that I'll never hold my baby Kara in this life? How can I have any happiness while here on this earth? I just want to die so I can be with my baby girl again.

I feel isolated from the rest of the world. None of my friends and family can understand the loss of a child. How can they understand the emotional despair and physical torment? There is nothing to talk about anymore; I'm just not interested. Small talk is pointless. I can see in their eyes, that they don't get it. They try to comfort, but their mind is already on something else. They have living children who have to be taken to little league, to ballet class, to preschool. They can't comprehend this place where I live now. I have nothing in common with them any longer.

I don't have many friends, but those I do have been with me for 15-20 years. My best friend in the world, hasn't visited since the funeral - its been 11 weeks. She stopped calling just a few short weeks afterwards. I'll get the random email asking how I am, but I'm hurt she hasn't made the effort to come and see us. Another friend hasn't contacted me at all since the funeral. Only one friend has been persistent throughout my grief. She is the person I named Kara for and would have been her Godmother. Kara found a babysitter and drove over an hour to see us, 7 weeks after the funeral. She was persistent and kept reaching out in support, all throughout my darkest days. She brought me a necklace with a pendant called 'Madonna', with Kara's name engraved on the back. I shared my despair and my hopelessness. I shared my fear of ever having a live child, ever in my life. I shared my anger at having prayed so fervently every night for Kara's safe delivery. Her gift was touching and thoughtful, one that I wear every day to remind me of her words that day: "Pain is something we risk when we let love into our lives." I have never loved this big and this unconditionally. My suffering is a direct reflection of my love for Kara. The bigger the love, the deeper the pain. This is my gift to Kara. I miss you baby girl.