Grief Wears Many Faces

Had she lived, our daughter would have turned thirteen on December 9th.  I'm sure we would have celebrated such an auspicious occasion with a party, since it's not every day that a child becomes an actual teenager.  There would have been cake, of course.  And many hugs, kisses, and joyful tears. 

But Zoe did not live.  She died before she was ready to be born, and she only lives in our memories and some sonogram pictures these days.  For many years, December was a horrible, horrible month for me.  The weight of unbearable grief, on top of my usual seasonal depression, would pull me into a dark place starting December 1st.  It was a fight just to get out of bed, and sometimes I just called that a victory.  It was even difficult, especially before I had Zane, to see a pregnant woman and not just break on the spot.

Even if my battle is all inside my heart, I'm a fighter.  In the years since, I've pushed and pulled my self out of the darkness every December, because the alternative was not an option for me. And in my inner battles, something happened. Slowly, the face of my grief has changed, melded and molded by time, into something else.

This year marks the first time in thirteen years that I haven't dreaded December 9th.  Instead of feeling a fist squeezed around my heart, choking me with grief, this year I acknowledged her passing with a quiet moment of love, sent out into the world, a prayer whispered into the wind.   My grief has become...bearable, at least for now. Maybe for awhile, maybe not.

A mother never truly gets over the loss of a child, no matter the circumstances. The bonds that join us are never broken, only changed.   People want to think that grief is a finite experience, with a beginning and an end after a particular time period.  It's not.  Grief wears many faces, and lasts forever, and you never know how it will show up, or when. 

On this day, I am grateful for that.

Anniversary

Today my daughter would have been ten, had she lived.  Zoe would have been in the fourth grade.  She probably would have had tons of friends, or maybe she would have been happy to be close to a few people, like me.  It's possible that she would have been a voracious reader, like me, delving into the bottom of books for trinkets and treasures. Maybe she would have been an athlete, or more into math. She may have been musically inclined.  I'm sure that she would have adored her baby brother.

Who am I kidding?

I pride myself on my stoicism, my practical nature.  My Germanic heritage dictates that I suck it up and carry on.  In my grief, therefore, I have drawn and painted a rosy picture of a wonderful life that never was.  The reality of what happened to me, and the enormity of my feelings from that day, still overwhelm me, so I have brushed over the pain with a pretty picture.  Maybe that's not the best way to deal with a broken heart, but it got me moving forward, and it still keeps me from crying nonstop on occasion. Today seems like as good a time as any to look underneath what was painted over. Reality may be horrible and tragic, but it needs to be faced with eyes wide open.

The reality is that my daughter would have had many special needs, since it is unheard of for a baby to be born alive at 19 weeks.  She would have had a long road, wrapped up in wires and tubes and monitors while she slept in an incubator for months, years maybe.  It is possible that Zoe might have been blind, or deaf, or both.  Since her lungs weren't fully developed, she would have had difficulty breathing, or would have been susceptible to infections her entire life.  Cognitively, she may not have advanced much further than recognizing familiar faces. Would I have been strong enough to deal with all of that, or would I fall underneath the weight of caring for such a child?  I'd like to think I'd be able to handle a special needs child, but I don't know for sure.  I never got the chance to find out. 

I do know that I would have loved my daughter, no matter what.  So today I mourn.