Sunday, December 12, 2010

Just Say It

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how it feels to have the words "my baby is dead" come out of my mouth. I mean, who ever thinks about how to say that?

How on earth can I put into words how it feels when your child, your baby, someone you've spent months loving, growing, caring about, suddenly dies inside your body? And then comes out of your body silently? How can I describe feeling like running into highway traffic would certainly be less painful and less traumatic than waking up every day without your baby? That banging your head against the wall, repeatedly and forcefully, is the only way to silence the roar?

Dramatic. That, up there, is dramatic. But not overly so, as describing the pain, anxiety, trauma, sadness and grief cannot be overstated. Words alone, though, don't do the pain justice. For someone who's--luckily--never experienced such pain can't possibly understand fully (again, luckily) just by reading these words.

So do I say it matter-of-factly? Simply, "My baby is dead. She died inside me, and then she was born." That's a freezing bucket of water in your face, yes? But it still doesn't convey, precisely, how awful and empty it feels.

Or do I stay silent? Let the bags under my eyes, the gray in my hair, the not-quite-a-smile tell the story for me? Ach. I have no idea.

It doesn't get better. At least, almost a year out, it isn't better. It is, however, different. It is just as horrible, lonely, shocking, and sad as it was on that day. It is not all-consuming. I think that's the only difference right now. It's not immediate. But it's still there, just as fierce when it comes to the surface.

There are so many babies missing. No, not missing. Missing implies there's hope they might be found. They're missed, certainly. But they're not coming back. So many families without their babies. This time of year is especially difficult--so many anniversaries, birthdays, holidays within the next few months.

But then again that's not the entire story, because all year long there's the same days. On and on and on.

None of this is easy, or simple. No matter how you say it.

I miss my daughter. That's it, plain and simple.


  1. I miss her with you. I very much wish she wasn't dead.

  2. I wish Calla were here to have Christmas with all our kids. I miss her too; just that I can put that aside and remember to be a normal person most of the time.
    Normal's overrated.

  3. I can't imagine, but end up imagining you are somewhere caught between the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future. But, there's no do-over, no way out-and even when you do close your eyes and see Calla or imagine her as almost one...then there is the little guy, pulling you back in. I know you will always be between worlds, but I hope that little bits of peace float in during this season of lots of emotions and give you a little bit of a life raft. Thinking of you in all the joys and sorrows and you make your way through.

  4. *hugs* I miss mine too. It gets easier, three years out I can say I feel better, but it's almost Christmas and I am missing her again

  5. Hey there...haven't heard from you in a while. I'm guessing you are busy like everyone this holiday, but I'm also guessing you are replaying a lot of, "this time...last year" moments. This is such a time of conflicting emotions, only made harder by the tumultuous (understatement) year you both have had. Hang in there. Thinking of you...