About a month ago, I invited readers of my blog to submit questions they had for a grieving parent. I
wondered if there were questions that people had always wanted to ask but never
quite had the courage to verbalize. I
received some intriguing suggestions. In forthcoming blog posts, I am going to attempt to answer
each question. It seemed most appropriate to begin this post on Charlotte's 7th birthday.
The pain associated with grief takes many forms. As I mentioned recently, I often feel the pain ebb and flow like waves on a beach. There are times in my life, such as near holidays or anniversaries, where the waves seem tsunami sized. The pain is sharper. I am more sensitive to some of the things that "trigger" my sadness. I'm probably more grumpy and easier to anger as well (apologies to anyone that gets caught in the wake). Sometimes I feel like I might drown.
Once the tsunami subsides, though, life resumes to this place that I call normal. Two and a half years after Charlotte's death, there are moments when I find myself truly and genuinely happy. I cherish those moments and savor them. I can float on the water or tread along the waves without much incident. I can even swim to a new point near the shore. Every once in a while, though, an errant wave will slap me in the face. The salty spray will bring me back to reality. That is how the pain feels from day-to-day. The grief is there but it surprises me at the strangest times.
I miss Charlotte every day.
I feel the pain of her loss in some form almost every minute of every
day; yet, as tragic as that may sound, I am now able to look at life with a new
pair of eyes. As with the pain of childbirth, time and distance have a way of playing tricks on your memory of
that pain- softening the sting and rounding off the edges. If that were not true, there would be many
more only children in the world.
Today, I spend just a little more time focused on my grief. I am going to try to ride the wave and see just how close I can get to the shore before I swallow some seawater.
Remembering Charlotte Jennie on what would have been her 7th birthday. We miss you oodles and bunches.
7/9/05-1/7/10
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThe ocean alalogies work well in expressing your grief. On Charlotte's seventh birthday, I felt melancholy all day, and I never actually met Charlotte; I know her from blogs and Emily and Meg and even their children who were touched deeply. You, as usual, write beautifully and creatively; you are quite a voice for those who suffer the loss of children, but who cannot articulate it. Incidentally, I wish to implement a birthday contribution to CJSTUF annually. Look for a check. Meanwhile, I pray for your coping skills. God bless!
DeleteDennis Folsom, Pulaski, VA
An old friend of mine messaged me your blog link. When she read it, unfortunately, she thought of me. Yes, poor unfortunate "me". I am in that club that every parent never wants to join. A club that both you and I are members of.
ReplyDeleteCoincidentally, my name is also Charlotte. When I look into the eyes of your daughter I am slapped in the face with the sting of my own loss. My daughter Cadence passed away at 16 weeks old. She was taken suddenly by an infection that attacked her so quickly that her immune system had no chance to react to. Leaving her mother, a newborn/l&d nurse by profession, no symptoms to act upon.
When I read your description of your grief I am amazed at how similarly we describe our loss. I have often compared my longing to hold my daughter to near drowning. For me it's that physical ache of needing air. When you swim to deep under water, not leaving enough oxygen in your lungs to make it back to the surface. When every cell in your body is screaming to breathe, yet you can't inhale because you are still inches from the surface. She is my air.
I lost Cadence just 9 months ago. I have come to the realization that life will never be as it once was. As you stated as having "a new normal". Nauseatingly and ironically, I lost my baby girl on "infant loss and awareness day". I remember driving into work hearing the commercial on the radio stating "a wife who loses a husband is a widow, a child that loses a parent is an orphan. but there is no word for a parent that has lost a child because there is no one word that can describe the severity of the loss". I remembering hearing this commercial at approximately 6:35 pm on Saturday October 15, 2011. By 11:40 pm that night i was on my bedroom floor performing CPR on my baby girl. By far, the absolute worst day of my life.
I know you are dealing with your own loss. I felt the need to contact you because who else can understand the aching of a mother's empty arms other than another mother who has that same ache. I guess I'm just hoping to connect with someone that truly knows my heart break.
Thanks so much for sharing. While reading your blog I, for once, felt like someone gets it...