I am in the place of counting out the years, the months the days and swallowing guilt. Remembering a time I lived and breathed those days, months, hours. I would never have needed to count.
We have lived so much longer without her than with, yet her short days have shaped my every. single. one.
I am in the place of the grieving moms before me who pulled me through, who promised one day anguish would not muffle every breath. Who told me to put one foot in front of the other and be gentle with myself and I really truly would survive.
But I am also in the place of maybe frustration. That I should be able to fall more gently or I should be a little tougher by now or I should be something. I don’t know what because there is no map or book or plan for losing a child and no story that mirrors your own with a mother on the other side telling you how she is getting out of bed and staying present and remembering silly things like shutting the car door or signing school permission slips.
I am in the place of watching my living children grow and settling into the knowing. The knowing what we really truly are missing. Of watching a daughter who should have a sister the same age wander for someone to play dress up and tea party and share a pink room and argue over Barbie clothes with and knowing she might always be a little bit of a lost soul. She is missing a piece too. She feels it already.
I am in the place of answering to little voices about death and where their sister is right now and how we can talk to her in our hearts and what star she is on and why she can’t come to their brother’s birthday party next weekend.
I am in the place of being as fragile as I am tough, as whole as I am empty, and as lost as I am sure of exactly where my feet are planted.
And I am finally, finally in a place of being able to tell that mother who was once me, who could not imagine the years stretched before her that she, you, I will be okay. That we will survive and we will come out the other side uprooted and bruised and dizzied but so unbelievably strong that we will forever step with purpose and an understanding of life we could never have found without someone leaving our arms and leading us to it.
This is where I am 4 years 7 months and 19 days since my daughter was alive.
Joining still life with circles for right where I am.
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You write about your grief and loss so eloquently. I wish I had such perfect words to give you in return. I want you know that I think of you and Hadley and her absence in your family often and can only imagine your sorrow. I’m sending you hugs and tears and peace. Lots and lots of peace. xoxo
Thank you so much Tonya, I know we have experienced loss in different ways but I have also felt that we share a special bond through our grief and I can’t thank you enough for all of your support.
We are always here to support you. I just want to send prayers for you.
Tears. You know I understand all of this.
I am praying for you.
I know you do and I know you are so early in your grief. I hope you can see the light, I remember it being so hard to early on but I promise the days get easier. Thinking of you too.
Your post resonates with me so very, very much. My baby boy was born at 27 weeks on April 11, 2008. He started out so strong, I had nothing but hope. He died on April 14 of that year. I still think of him every single day. I have a happy, healthy daughter now but you are so right: I know even more through her what I am missing of him. Thank you for sharing your story.
Hadley passed away on an 11th too. I’m so sorry you don’t have your little boy.
I have one living daughter who lost her only sister (though not a womb mate) and I’m seeing her loss now too. That bond of sisterhood.
And your last paragraph. Wow – just wow. So true and so powerful.
So sorry for your loss Jill. Stopping by to read your story as well.
This is so lovely, Jessica. You write, so beautifully and clearly about all of those paradoxes so many of us find ourselves living through, becoming. And every word here is filled with love for your children so palpable I almost feel like I can touch it through the screen.
All of those shoulds and the frustration over them speak to me so clearly. I keep thinking I should be better, somehow, or stronger, or less sensitive. Or more compassionate, but in less awkward ways. Something.
Love to you.
I know exactly what you mean, I always feel like I should be doing something better through this whole process put there is just no map for it. Sending much love to you.
I had to go back and read Hadley’s story to get my bearings in this–your progress. I feel crippled to comment because what does one–especially me, a stranger to you–say about so painful a journey? I don’t know. I do know, though, that the all-out truths you’ve poured into this post are going to be just the words that some other mother, some other place needs to read in order to find her own way in her own journey.
I’m so sorry for the loss you experienced those years ago, and for the daily losses you are experiencing still. I’m so glad for this truly moving post. So glad for you that you’ve come to a spot where your wholeness equals your empty. One day at a time.
Jessica,
What a beautiful piece of your heart you have shared….all those little flutterings and rainbow rubbed light…so beautiful. I am with you today:)
Jessica,
I could probably comment all day on this post. As ok as I feel most days, something about this space between 4 and 5 years with my surviving twin is new and different. C is emerging from her baby-state and becoming herself. Before I just missed my other baby but, now, the full scope of R’s absence is setting in. And it’s manageable because I’ve been at this for a while but it’s so hard to wrap my brain around. Best to you.
T
I love how honest and heartfelt this is. Where you are? It’s real. And that’s what matters.
You’re a beautiful mom and you inspire me a lot.
Absolutely beautiful and breathtaking. You are such an amazing and strong woman.
This is absolutely beautiful.
I just read your daughter’s story and wanted to tell you how very sorry I am that you went through that. I lost two pregnancies and without those losses never would have known I needed surgery on my uterus – without the surgery I never could have had children. My most recent pregnancy was twins and sadly I lost one of them around 14 weeks so i think I will also feel like my son is missing someone but I am thrilled to have him in my life and thankful to his siblings for making his life possible. I wish they were all with me but I know that is not possible. Again thank you for sharing <3
“we will survive and we will come out the other side uprooted and bruised and dizzied but so unbelievably strong that we will forever step with purpose and an understanding of life we could never have found without someone leaving our arms and leading us to it.” —- so beautifully said… So very sorry for your loss – thank you for sharing <3
Well-said and lovely. I know your words will help others who are not as far along in the process as you are. Big hug!
Thank you so much for stopping by my blog… ‘shoulds’ are always so hard. You are an amazing mum… to all your kids near and far… there are no shoulds. You are also an inspiration in dealing with all that you have… with such a wonderful outlook. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful post. Love always xoxo
This is beautifully written and your words find a home in my heart. They seem to, in so many ways, to speak of my own journey from complete darkness, to a place where I could learn to dream new dreams. Even though the most important dream I had ever had in my life up until that point had been lost, right along with a tiny baby boy, so little that I could cradle him in my hands the moment he went to sleep forever.
This is perfect. That leaving our arms to lead us to it part sucks. SUCKS. But as battered and bruised as it’s left us, I kind of shudder to think about who I’d be, and where I’d be, without it.
Jessica, I can’t even begin to imagine. Sending a hug.
I have never lost a child, Jessica. My losses and griefs have been the simple kind that everyone faces. Your kind is a different kind of torture – How could it ever go away? This post made me ugly-cry and I am so inspired by your courage to share.
“I don’t know what because there is no map or book or plan for losing a child and no story that mirrors your own with a mother on the other side telling you how she is getting out of bed and staying present and remembering silly things like shutting the car door or signing school permission slips.”
This part gave me an incredible glimpse into your struggles; a tiny sliver of understanding what you must go through, how you find a way to function and live and love your children in the midst of grief. I know everyone else keeps saying it but it is true: You are a beautiful writer. I can only imagine the strength your sharing gives other mothers who have suffered loss.
My God, this is the most painfully beautiful thing I’ve ever read and I am undone in tears. You are a beautiful, beautiful writer who is so honest with her emotions that the reader gets pulled in and FEELS it. So many lines in there I loved… so much depth to the simplicity of every word selected… each heavy with meaning and light with hope. Amazing, amazing, amazing. My heart both aches and is healed with you.
Im just beginning to be in the ‘you do recover’ place, which is a sad place in its own right. It has been enormously helpful to read through these 4 year on blogs and find that acceptance of recovery also comes. Thank you.
This took my breath away. It’s stunning.
(And your words, too, are right where they need to be.)
Sending you what I’ve got.
“And I am finally, finally in a place of being able to tell that mother who was once me, who could not imagine the years stretched before her that she, you, I will be okay. That we will survive and we will come out the other side uprooted and bruised and dizzied but so unbelievably strong that we will forever step with purpose and an understanding of life we could never have found without someone leaving our arms and leading us to it.”
Thank you for writing this and sharing where you are in your journey. I teared up when I read this last paragraph – still in this first year after loss, I am trying to imagine how I might become strong, and failing to find that vision.
Sending love to you and your family
xoxoxo
So profoundly put after all of these years. I second the paragraph that Brianna mentioned. This is exactly it for me too. It’s so complicated to describe and yet you do it so beautifully. Yes, as hard as it is to believe, we will be okay.
Oh my heart… I know that these words will help someone, somewhere. I am thinking of you and your family…
“And I am finally, finally in a place of being able to tell that mother who was once me, who could not imagine the years stretched before her that she, you, I will be okay. That we will survive and we will come out the other side uprooted and bruised and dizzied but so unbelievably strong that we will forever step with purpose and an understanding of life we could never have found without someone leaving our arms and leading us to it.”
Wow. This is exactly it. Well said. I’ll add here what I didn’t in my own post- I used to miss that woman who I once was. She was so blissfully naive. But now I am finally in a place I can say with honesty that I prefer this version of myself to the previous one. I am stronger and kinder and wiser and more full of love.
Oh that is so true, I used to look at the old me and miss her too but I don’t anymore. I don’t miss being that naive and I’m grateful to have learned to soak up the moments the way I do now. So glad to have connected with you Brianna.
Dear Jessica,
Thank you for trying to answer the unanswerable, and with such beauty and grace.
This is so beautiful.
Keep writing about this friend.
Keep speaking out for those who need help pulling through one of the most tradgic moments in their life.
Be their strength and I hope that they can be yours.
xo
You always take my breath away with your ability to put devastation into a place of love and hope. Be well.
It has been 4 years 3 months and 17 days since I lost my son the week before his 23rd birthday. Each day is unchartered territory that I alone can navigate. Some days this feels like a gift, and some days this feels like a curse.
Thank you for sharing Jessica. I think we can all connect through our stories…
Deborah (Tawanda Bee)
You are such a bright, strong star in our world Jessica. That little girl, gone too soon and the children you hold here onearth are so lucky to have such an amazing and loving mom. These words were so beautiful and my heart aches for how your heart hurts. Xoxo
Not even sure what to say but that I love you. xo
Thank you for sharing this, Jessica. IT is so perfectly put, written with so much love and honesty. This community is so incredible, reading all these stories of people’s present moment in grief helps, particularly as I find myself revisiting grief’s early days. Thank you again, and much love to you. xo
I appreciate your courage and strength Jessica. You’re such a great mom!
I wish I could give you a hug.
Thank you so much.
XO
because there are no words
So beautiful Jessica! I had tears reading that McKenna should be having tea with her sister, it was so nice to have my sister growing up and even now more than ever, and I think about how Autumn will not have her sisters either. There will always be a bond to heaven that we will always feel pulled towards. Im so grateful for your support, and this beautiful community of women and men. Love and hugs, Nan xoxoxo
And I’m so grateful to you Nan, you are such an amazing person. I hate that we’ve connected through such awful circumstances but so glad that we have. Sending lots of love and a squeeze for Autumn.
Don’t EVER let anyone tell you that you should be at a certain point in your grief at a certain time. My youngest sibling was still born. He would have been 21 in January. It took my Mom about 18 years before she stopped hitting a brick wall of depression each January. Now my family is able to celebrate our littlest brother. We’re able to toast to him on his birthday, rather than help hold my mom up. But we still get her flowers every year. We’re still extra gentle with her on his day.
I don’t want to scare you or make you think that it’s going to take you 18 years to get over your little angel. There were many other things that hindered my mom’s healing. I just want you to know that you should never feel pressured not to grieve. And Hadley will be with you. ALWAYS. She’ll never stop being your baby. I promise that someday you’ll be able to smile at what she brought to your life, rather than cry over what you lost in hers. It will get better.
Thanks for your kind words Sandra, I don’t think I ever will get over our loss and have learned to smile at the many gifts she has given us but there are also days that it is still very tough and the winters are long, as you said they are for your mom too. It is great to hear that you all have supported your mom through it and remember your brother with her. I hope my children do the same.
Just speechless at all the grief, love, loss, support and kindness in this post and comments.
Thank you for this post. I am hoping to figure out where I am right now and reading about others who are surviving helps. Thanks again. xo
You should try this and link up. It was hard to do but really good for me I think. I have come a long way, even though there are days that I think I haven’t. Just knowing we can make it is progress. You are in my thoughts Lanie and I hope you are doing okay.
This was so incredibly beautiful. Thank you very much for taking part in Angie’s amazing project. It has helped me find some wonderful new blogs I hadn’t stumbled across before in my almost four years of being a grieving mother.
xo
And again, I am here feeling ill-equipped for the task of commenting…unable to tell you how your words move me.
But this insight here is a gift to all your readers:
“We will forever step with purpose and an understanding of life we could never have found without someone leaving our arms and leading us to it.”
I’m so glad to hear you say that Julie. I was scared to post this because I was worried about sharing such deep feelings and grief. I didn’t want to scare people. So to know that you can take something away from this makes me feel that much better about hitting publish.
Explaining death to a child is such an odd and delicate thing. To try and tell them the truth without scaring them, to not try and infuse your explanation with your own sense of loss so that you don’t color their feelings, that is where I find myself 3 years, 3 months and 14 days later. The girls know that Caitlin is in heaven, but I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “dead”, and so far they have not asked why (I think Gabrielle did once, when there were other people around, so I was able to distract her). This morning they were talking about being in mommy’s tummy, and how Caitlin was there, and Julia said she wanted to hug Caitlin, and I said she couldn’t, because she wasn’t here, and Gabrielle said, “Only when she comes to our house can you hug her.” They get it and yet they don’t. Which in reality isn’t any different from me; I get that she’s gone, but I really don’t.
I think the same about my kids, as they get older and ask more questions, I think my answers may be getting clearer to them somewhat and then they ask if we can pick her up from the hospital and I know they are just as confused as before. One of these days they will understand and I’m not sure if that will make any of it harder or easier.
There are times when I comment that I look for just the right words to say. Just the right combination that will let them know how much their post spoke to me. Then there are times when posts take my breath away out of sadness. Out of pure awe. Out of inspiration. Your words are always so meaningful. Always so deep and always open my eyes to learning more about the human heart and the strength we have hidden in our cores. You have such a way of making me dig to find it. But I don’t have the right words to tell you really how beautiful your words truly are.
I think you just did :). Thank you for continuing to read and always being here for me Tayarra.
This was stunningly beautiful and left me breathless and in tears. You are an amazing woman. Truly.
Thank you so much Mandy and thank you for all of your support over the years.
This is such a beautiful post.
“That we will survive and we will come out the other side uprooted and bruised and dizzied but so unbelievably strong that we will forever step with purpose and an understanding of life we could never have found without someone leaving our arms and leading us to it.”
– I struggle to even imagine how I will come out the other side of this, but reading the posts on this linkup is making me realise that people do. They carry on, without their child, with a huge hole in their lives, but also with hope and with purpose. It’s a tough thing for me to hear at the moment, but it’s very much needed.
I am so glad you visited because you are in that place I remember so well of truly not thinking I could survive this and thinking that the rest of my life seemed impossibly long to live without my daughter. You will make it I promise. Honestly there are many days I still struggle but it becomes part of life and I wouldn’t want it any other way, it is a reminder of how much I love her and that she was here.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, that is all you can do. And email me any time if you need someone to listen fourplusanangel@gmail.com. You will be in my thoughts, thank you so much for visiting. Sending a million hugs.
Thank you Jessica, that means a lot to me. xx
This. Exactly this.
I’m sorry you know “this” so well Bethany.
xoxo always.
Jessica, this is so beautifully written. I was hoping that you would contribute to this project. Strangely enough, just this morning, my own Jessica (a surviving twin) saw a picture of McKenna on facebook as she was randomly clicking away on my laptop and asked ‘Mummy, who’s that?’ and I told her that I had met that little girl’s mummy because she also had a sister who was in her mummy’s tummy with her who died. When I told her that McKenna also had a brother with her in her mummy’s tummy she looked aghast! A brother too! No way!
I’m just so sorry that I have cause to know you through that sad connection, I wish we had meet on a forum about raising multiple children instead, and I wish that your beloved Hadley were here, with her sister. But, if this is the way that things have to be, then I am so grateful for your presence and for your writing.
And your description of a daughter who is always missing a piece, who should have a sister the same age of play with and to argue with. That just tore at my heart.
Thank you so much Jessica for staying here, for telling those mothers who come after you that we will be ok. We might be uprooted and bruised but yes . . .they lead us to that purpose and to that understanding. You have been such a source of support to me, through the loss of my daughter and through the subsequent birth of my son. Just . . . thank you. You are beautiful, inside and out.
We must have been meant to connect today Catherine because I thought of you this morning as well and then somehow ended up on a blog you had commented on, clicked over from there and found your post for this link up and that is how I found out about it and decided to link up. I’m honored to think that I could ever be a support to you. You always handle yourself with such grace and express yourself in your writing in ways I could only dream of.
I think McKenna feels the loss of Hadley so much more deeply than her brother does and it is so hard to watch, especially as she gets older but at the same time it is comforting that she brings her up so often and will help her memory live on.
I can’t thank you enough for your kind words and for visiting today. So much love to you.
This is beautiful, Jessica. Just beautiful. Your spirit, your strength, your vulnerability are what will get you through. You and your family are always in my thoughts and prayers.
Thank you so much Jessica, I truly appreciate all of your support and understanding over the years.
I wish I had something profound to say, I honestly can’t even imagine your pain. Sending you positive thoughts and prayers.
Thank you so much Corey.
Breathless. And beautiful.