It has been on year. Exactly one full year.

****Note: This is taken from prior written blog in Oct 20th, 2016*** 

 

 

Being a bereaved parent is not easy. In fact, it is the single most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my life. I often long for someone to understand exactly how I feel; exactly what I battle; exactly why I often feel like giving up. I cannot even begin to describe all the emotions, and questionable irrational thoughts I have. Yet I do not wish this sorrow upon anyone. Instead I long for hope, acceptance, and empathy. I seek to educate others about one of the most avoided human experiences- grief.

The hardest part of stumbling down this road, for me personally, has been the loneliness. Of course, the act of losing a child is nothing short of the worst imaginable tragedy, but doing it alone is, at times,  inconceivable. Yet here I am- living it- doing it- surviving it.

Yes, I said alone. This is not meant to offend. It is simply how I feel. 

Countless amounts of people have suggested support groups, counselors, and my favorite-God. Because you know, "God needed an angel". Stop.  Please just stop right there. Please stop trying to tell me the best way to deal with MY grief. Please stop trying to avoid that fact that I am forever broken, changed, damaged. I know you mean well and any amount of support should be helpful.  I also understand that it is difficult to be on the receiving end of a grief stricken individual-but let me FEEL.

Let me wallow in my sadness as I continuously ask "why", knowing quite frankly that there are no answers to my questions. Let me break down on the bathroom floor when I recall the day I brought my child home from the hospital, pink flamingo hat in all-only to lose her two months and two days later. Let me feel guilty for keeping her in the hospital nursery over night so I could partake in some much needed sleep, not aware that those extra few hours could have been added to the already short time I was able to spend with her-yet instead, they were taken away. Do not judge me for still being angry that my own child did not cry to signify something might not have been right. Do not judge me for screaming over and over again, "Why didn't you cry? Why couldn't you just cry? Why did you just sleep? Why didn't you wake up?" Don't judge me for pondering over all the "What Ifs"even if they do not change the outcome.

Or if you would like, judge me. I don't give a damn.

Judge me because I am envious of all the parents who still have their children to come home to- to celebrate holidays with, and buy birthday gifts for. Judge me for feeling like those of you who say I have never parented a child, are less than decent human beings. Judge me for being pissed off at those of you who think a loss of a child at two months, is any different than a loss of a child of twelve years. Judge me for seeming weak, fragile, hopeless, or oblivious. Hell, judge me for all of the above!  Judge me for not using my manners these days, or ignoring you when you are talking. I promise you I am not being ignorant. I am being human. Go ahead- judge me for mourning the loss of the child I thought I was going to have. I dare you.

The truth is, I am lonely. Yes I have friends. Yes I have loved ones that I am ever grateful are still in my life. However, mourning the life I created is MY burden. No one else can understand just how special that sweet innocent baby was to ME- no support group, no counselor, no one. Those who have experienced such a loss can certainly weigh in on their own feelings, and experiences. However, the support is different-somewhat masked if you will.

My loneliness is raw-all encompassing- it engulfs my being. No one else will understand the bond between THIS mother and THIS child. No one else will understand the dark place I was in when I gave birth, and just how miraculously she pulled me out of that darkness. No one will ever truly understand what I would give for just one more second with that sweet child. No one. And for this reason, I will always have some sense of loneliness, some sense of emptiness.

Let me feel this. Let me grieve.

It reminds me that I am alive, that I have lived, and that I am human. Most of all, it reminds me that I am Avianna's mother.