3 Months

I'd love to be able to say that three months after I kissed my angel goodbye I am now standing strong and moving on, but the truth is that I am still very weak. Depending on the day, or even on the moment, I am fragile. I realize now that those "good days" that I've mentioned are only part of the bigger picture which is still ridden with grief.

I realized this more than ever just the other day. Due to my health insurance plan, I had to schedule an appointment with my primary doctor to get a referral for a specialist. I had not seen my primary in nearly 3 years because they were not able to see me during my pregnancies, and apparently, I was pretty healthy during the year between Owen's birth and my second pregnancy, and did not need to go in. I was prepared to see the nurse practitioner for a quick visit, get my referral, and go about my day. Before I could even talk about what I needed the referral for, the nurse asked how things have been in the last 3 years, and if I had children. Ugh. Do I just tell her about my son or does she need to know about Lily too? Well, I thought, they are my doctors and should probably know everything. I was not prepared to discuss this. I took a deep breath, and began to tell her about the birth of my son and the death of my daughter. She immediately spun around on her stool, abruptly stopped writing in my chart, and looked at me with very sincere and empathetic eyes. She talked about her years of experience as a labor and delivery nurse, and her knowledge and first hand experience with babies diagnosed with Trisomy. She repeated the information that we have been told by other health care professionals, and she offered encouragement and comfort.

It's funny, though, because I have had days when I felt strong and empowered and I yearned to tell my story, but this day felt different. I felt overcome with grief in that office and I cried as I talked to this stranger about my baby girl. Although, I assume she has not had personal experience with this issue, she has had professional experience working with other women and families who have. It was as if she could understand where I had been like others really can't.

Being in that office brought some of those feelings back for me that I had when I had my post delivery follow up. It was the feeling of being in a very cold and sterile medical examination room talking to someone who is attempting to bring warmth and compassion to the uncomfortable environment as we discussed my daughter's illness. She talked with me for about an hour, and only spent about 5 minutes talking about the actual reason for my visit, which was completely unrelated to Lily. It felt good to talk about Lily again, but it also stirred up all of those feelings of grief that I've been managing to tuck away day after day.

So, when people ask me if I am doing "better", I'm not always sure how to answer. I usually muster up a smile, nod politely, answer "yes", and thank them for inquiring, but I find myself wondering what it would really mean to "feel better". Of course I have days that don't seem so gloomy, and those days I guess I could classify as "better", but today, three months later, I feel about the same as I did just 1 or 2 months ago. It's not that I sit around feeling sorry for myself or that I mope or cry all the time. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I put on a smile and engage in family activities or whatever the day brings and I enjoy things just as I did before, but inside, I question if our family will ever feel whole again with one of us not here. I wonder if this feeling will ever go away, and if it does, would that mean that I felt better?

While I feel somewhat defeated to not be able to demonstrate a positive progression of grief, this is my reality for now, and I believe that this is a normal part of the cycle. Grief is the ups and downs and the unpredictable moments that hit you when you least expect it. I am still as hopeful as ever, but I am also trying to be more realistic. I know that I need to be easy on myself, and eliminate the idea that my grief should have a timeframe. It can't be compared to anyone else's; it is just as unique as I am and as Lily was.