I am like an unfinished canvas. My hopes and dreams for the future were just starting to take shape, I had it all pictured in my mind, but I never got to finish it. I lay empty and blank - unsure of my future, unable to envision my life without my daughter. Sometimes I don't know how I can survive this. The pain is still so great at times that I can't believe I've survived 7 months since her death. I miss you baby girl - miss you so much that it steals my breath away.
I used to have the world in palm of my hand. I had a great job, wonderful husband, beautiful home, and I was finally pregnant. I was expecting my first child, after 2 years of infertility, and I was on top of the world. Everything was as it should be, and we eagerly expected the arrival of our baby to complete the picture. When I was pregnant, I felt like everything was 'right'. Everything was finally coming together for us, we would finally be a family. But then Kara died, and all my hopes and dreams evaporated. I went inside myself for months and months, unable to perform normal work or social activities, retreating from friends, family & customers. My world was turned upside down, and I'm just recently starting to find myself again. There are still terribly painful times, and even days. I don't expect them to ever go away entirely. I still weep when I allow myself the freedom to actually feel the grief. But the weeping eventually ceases and I'm able to muster the strength to go on another day. This is a small step in the right direction (a large step, actually) and I feel I am on my way to healing. I'm taking one day at a time.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
My perfect girl
I came across a little pink frame this morning while organizing my kitchen, a favor from my baby shower last April. This little frame...it brought me to pieces, made me rush to her memory box to look at her photos - those perfect little hands and feet, that beautiful face! How can she be gone?
Sometimes I tell myself I can live like this, with this overwhelming, impossible-to-contemplate loss. I remind myself that I am healing and that I will go on with my life, however reluctant I am to do so. This morning I am suffocated with the enormity of her death. The pain in my heart, the tightening of my throat, the lack of air suddenly overwhelms me and I am once again brought to my knees with grief. My precious little baby is gone and there is nothing in the world I can do to make it better. I will live with this recurring heartache for the rest of my life. It seems impossible at times.
What is it like to actually give birth to a live baby? I can't imagine. All I know of motherhood is pain and heartache, helplessness in the face of death. It is a dream beyond imagining for me. I miss her so much, I would give my life to have her alive and well.
Sometimes I tell myself I can live like this, with this overwhelming, impossible-to-contemplate loss. I remind myself that I am healing and that I will go on with my life, however reluctant I am to do so. This morning I am suffocated with the enormity of her death. The pain in my heart, the tightening of my throat, the lack of air suddenly overwhelms me and I am once again brought to my knees with grief. My precious little baby is gone and there is nothing in the world I can do to make it better. I will live with this recurring heartache for the rest of my life. It seems impossible at times.
What is it like to actually give birth to a live baby? I can't imagine. All I know of motherhood is pain and heartache, helplessness in the face of death. It is a dream beyond imagining for me. I miss her so much, I would give my life to have her alive and well.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A New Year
Could it be that I've turned a corner? Since New Year's I've felt a little differently about life. No, I'm not pregnant. I wish I were.
It's been 7 months since I lost Kara. I wake up in the morning and Kara is always on my mind. But instead of lingering in bed and crying or feeling that intense sadness, that desperation, I feel sad and get out of bed to make coffee. I get on with my day, knowing I will be sad and somehow accepting it. Coffee tastes good again. Reading a book is possible again. Working out feels good again. For the first time in 7 months, I actually enjoyed my work this week.
What does this mean for me? I struggle with having good days, worried that Kara will think I've forgotten, that somehow the lack of deep depression means that I'm over her loss. For 7 months, I've lived in hell. Every moment (waking or sleeping) has been lived through a haze of depression. Every thought was clouded by deep sadness and longing, a disbelief of my loss. Every word was uttered through a veil of childloss. My world is clouded gray with my loss. It has permeated every fiber of my being, my every word, my every thought, my every action.
Kara is foremost in my mind, every second of every day, but I've had a peaceful week and I hope it continues.
It's been 7 months since I lost Kara. I wake up in the morning and Kara is always on my mind. But instead of lingering in bed and crying or feeling that intense sadness, that desperation, I feel sad and get out of bed to make coffee. I get on with my day, knowing I will be sad and somehow accepting it. Coffee tastes good again. Reading a book is possible again. Working out feels good again. For the first time in 7 months, I actually enjoyed my work this week.
What does this mean for me? I struggle with having good days, worried that Kara will think I've forgotten, that somehow the lack of deep depression means that I'm over her loss. For 7 months, I've lived in hell. Every moment (waking or sleeping) has been lived through a haze of depression. Every thought was clouded by deep sadness and longing, a disbelief of my loss. Every word was uttered through a veil of childloss. My world is clouded gray with my loss. It has permeated every fiber of my being, my every word, my every thought, my every action.
Kara is foremost in my mind, every second of every day, but I've had a peaceful week and I hope it continues.
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