Resilence

My counselor used the word resilence yesterday, and I've been thinking about it a lot. Initially I thought about recovery. That's why some people talked about as the thing that happens after you lose a child. Recovery seems to imply some sort of return to normal though, which I don't believe can happen. Resilence has similar definitions--they refer to returning to an original form, holding your shape etc. But I prefer this word--it implies some sort of strength, which is what I'm told I have.

The counselor was telling me about a book she read in which the author was looking at how some people are able to weather multiple traumas, something I feel I've certainly done. It seems there is no one factor, that it's a combination of genetics, experience, outlook, and choices. Which matches what I've written previously and believe myself.

The important part of that to me is the choices part. The other things I don't have control over. I guess I've chosen some of my experiences and they shape me, but that's still sort of a limited thing. I can still choose how to respond to things. I wonder if someday I will choose to crumble, to just give in to things that seem to be trying to crush me. But as long as it's my choice, I don't think that will happen.

It always comes back to my daughter. Yesterday I realized that if anything happened to me--illness, injury--I would fight. I would NOT give in as I thought I would when I first lost my daughter. I wasn't able to see her grow up, but I'm sure as hell going to see my baby grow up. And myself.

Light in the tunnel

I was wondering the other day whether I would ever see a light at the end of this tunnel. Then I realized I will probably never escape the tunnel. My daughter is never coming back, and I will never be OK with losing her. So in the tunnel I stay.

In the beginning, it was a dark, scary tunnel. Literally--this relates to my previous post about locking ourselves in our bedroom the night she died and for a while after that. I felt surrounded by darkness, even though I was surrounded by friends. I think initially there's no way anyone can break up the darkness, because all you want is for it to go away. Everyone, friends, family, all of us were sitting in that dark tunnel.

Eventually, a few people (me included) figured out ways to light a candle in the tunnel. Such a small light, but it was something. And that small light helped me to take a step forward here and there. There were many times I had to sit down again, and felt swallowed by the darkness. Somehow, I did manage to get up every time (so far) and keep walking.

And no, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I doubt I'll ever walk out of it. All I can imagine in the distant future is having to explain to my daughter how her older sister died, how amazing she was, and how much I miss her. All I can hope right now is that someday it will be easier than it seems right now. Just writing about it makes me cry. And of course I hope she understands, understands that I loved my firstborn and wish I could have protected her all the time and from absolutely everything, and that while I will miss her forever, this doesn't mean that I love my baby girl any less.

I also hope that maybe I or someone else finds a way to build some windows. Maybe someday I'll be able to see outside the tunnel and enjoy the light and the view.

Darkness and evil

When I went back to the house after saying goodbye to my daughter at the hospital that day, I felt evil. For the very first time, I truly felt it. The house was a dark, sinister place. I couldn't go into certain parts of it, like her room and bathroom. But at the same time, I didn't want to leave the house. My husband sat outside in the backyard most of the time leading up to the memorial. I sat on the living room sofa.

At night, we would shut ourselves in our room with the baby and sleep the oblivious sleep of the mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. We kept the door closed, and I felt as though we were trying to keep the dark evil at bay.

We stayed in that house for another 6 months. I work full-time from home. The baby and nanny are with me, but the nanny is only there for about 5 hours. After that, I was alone with the baby until my husband got home. I felt the evil envelope me sometimes. I thought I would go crazy. My biggest fear was not being able to take care of the baby.

So I would call. I would call until I found someone to talk to, about anything, to keep me anchored and keep the darkness from swallowing me. And it worked. I stayed sane until we left.

In the new house, I can revisit the memories I want, instead of having to remember the day my daughter died. I feel physically lighter. I knew I'd never be able to use her room or bathroom again and couldn't live that way. We've brought the memories with us to share with her sister, and are at the same time making a new space and new memories.

Acting as if

Sometimes acting "as if" can get you through. In a job interview, if you act as if you're confident, then maybe you actually ARE confident. In the past 10 months, I've often told myself to act "as if." It probably happens most when I'm in a situation where I feel like I can't break down. I act as if I'm OK, and that gets me through.

At most, I often think I can only have a "decent" day, rather than a truly wonderful day. There's always the shadow of my daughter's death, all of the things she should have been here to see and do. So the most I can do is act as if.

After all these months of acting as if, I think I'm beginning to believe that I'm not always acting. What is the difference between acting as if you're happy and truly being happy? I think almost anyone could come up with a reason (no matter how insignificant) at any given time to be unhappy. Maybe we're always all acting as if.

I go, once again, back to my baby daughter. She turned one yesterday. I got more calls, emails, birthday wishes for her than I think any of us has ever gotten. I'm not sure how everyone remembered, but I do know that everyone understood that it was a bittersweet occasion. And I don't want every occasion to be that.

For now, I act "as if" and keep hoping that someday, it all will truly be. I don't want to spend my life acting, but it's hard to imagine now ever feeling anything but sadness at having lost the chance to spend my entire lifetime with my daughter.

I care...most of the time

After my daughter's death, the only thing I cared about was my baby. Even that was sometimes a struggle. Caring for her got me out of bed in the morning, but I would often think that I could easily have someone else raise her and she wouldn't know any different.

For weeks, months, maybe the entire past year, I've told myself that I just need time. A friend told me time would provide a cushion. And it does--the shock and horror are...softened a bit, but they do come back. And in the end, I've still lived through something so horrible I'd never wish it on anyone. And my daughter will never, ever come back.

There have been days when I could barely work. How could work be important? My daughter, who I'd lived for each and every day since before she was born, was gone. Still, I kept working. Mostly for my other daughter and my sanity. It gave me something to focus on, kept my mind from wandering to bad places. It took a lot of effort to care about work, and other things. I had to make myself care about everything from what I ate to washing my hair.

Nowadays, I find myself actually caring. If I'm working on something, I actually want it to turn out well. I started coloring my hair again, because I don't want to look like I don't care.

It takes effort like I can't describe to care about life after losing a child. If you can manage it, or get help in summoning the willpower to do so, caring can help get you through. Finding something, anything to care about to fight through even one more day is like practice--eventually, you will truly care again.

Grieving a little at a time

A friend of mine was in a horrible accident when she was about 7 months pregnant. She was run over by a bus, spent a month in the hospital, and still doesn't remember most of what happened. When my daughter died, I was so worried about what it must have been like, what she must have thought or felt. My friend reassured me that she probably didn't feel or think much of anything, that our bodies are equipped to numb us, make us forget extreme physical trauma, because our minds and hearts just aren't able to process it.

I know she's right, because I fell off my bike when I was about 10 years old and all I remember is flying over the handlebars and waking up at home several hours later. I don't remember going to or being at the hospital, the stitches, nothing.

So I'm somewhat relieved. It's helped me stop worrying about what my girl's last minutes with us were like.

And I wonder whether our hearts and minds are able to process something like the loss of a child. Initially, shock cushioned every minute, every horrible thing I had to do, from saying goodbye to my child in a hospital room, to going to the funeral home to sign all the papers for her cremation.

Eventually the shock wore off. And I started to re-experience events from that day minus the shock. I still experience them, and react the way I probably would have without the shock--screaming, crying, whatever. But at some point, it stops. I stop. Because if I didn't, I'd probably go insane with sadness and anger.

I believe my mind isn't able to fully process this loss. I grieve a little at a time because that's all I can manage. And for that reason, I will never stop grieving. I will turn over the events of that day, the fact she's gone, the things she never got to do, and all the other horrible things, in my mind again and again and again.