June is just around the corner
The other day Charlotte asked me why Abby died. I still wish I knew.
It's been nearly 8 years since Abby was born and died - I cannot brain how this can be true. Really? Eight years? Can't be.
I think of Abby every day, many times a day. It doesn't prick my heart every time I think of her, the thoughts come and go as softly and naturally as a breath but at this time of year I start to feel twinges in my heart. It's the dates of her birth and death that bring a little sting; whenever I book a client appointment on Abby's angelversary, or when the kids' school calendar has an event happening on Abby's birthday, even just noticing that the milk expires on her birthday is like a tiny poke at my heart.
Abby's birth and death, my grief, it's all very real and very distant at the same time, as if I'm observing a horrible car accident from a distance, feeling the sadness and horror more intensely the closer I get to the scene. It just gets so bigger, more real as I get closer to June 9th. I start to feel things again; the gush of fluid and great relief when she was finally born, the heat and stickiness of her freshly born body, the stiffness of her hands after she was embalmed, the flannel baby blanket that I cried into for months after she died. I feel it.
After 8 years, I can talk about Abby's death without crying (most of the time). Every time I do it though, I have to distance myself a bit, shut down for a while so that I can get through the conversation without falling apart. Every so often the reality of it seeps through and I can't push aside the painful memories.
I'm sure most people won't understand why, even after all these years, that we'll have another birthday cake for Abby, that the tears will come, that I'll still feel an intense need to push my hands through the grass on her grave until I feel dirt.
So, as we get closer to Abby's birthday I'll plan Charlotte's 7th birthday party and continue to deliver warm sticky babies onto their mama's bellies, breathing a sigh of relief when they take their first breaths.
It's been nearly 8 years since Abby was born and died - I cannot brain how this can be true. Really? Eight years? Can't be.
I think of Abby every day, many times a day. It doesn't prick my heart every time I think of her, the thoughts come and go as softly and naturally as a breath but at this time of year I start to feel twinges in my heart. It's the dates of her birth and death that bring a little sting; whenever I book a client appointment on Abby's angelversary, or when the kids' school calendar has an event happening on Abby's birthday, even just noticing that the milk expires on her birthday is like a tiny poke at my heart.
Abby's birth and death, my grief, it's all very real and very distant at the same time, as if I'm observing a horrible car accident from a distance, feeling the sadness and horror more intensely the closer I get to the scene. It just gets so bigger, more real as I get closer to June 9th. I start to feel things again; the gush of fluid and great relief when she was finally born, the heat and stickiness of her freshly born body, the stiffness of her hands after she was embalmed, the flannel baby blanket that I cried into for months after she died. I feel it.
After 8 years, I can talk about Abby's death without crying (most of the time). Every time I do it though, I have to distance myself a bit, shut down for a while so that I can get through the conversation without falling apart. Every so often the reality of it seeps through and I can't push aside the painful memories.
I'm sure most people won't understand why, even after all these years, that we'll have another birthday cake for Abby, that the tears will come, that I'll still feel an intense need to push my hands through the grass on her grave until I feel dirt.
So, as we get closer to Abby's birthday I'll plan Charlotte's 7th birthday party and continue to deliver warm sticky babies onto their mama's bellies, breathing a sigh of relief when they take their first breaths.