This is a quote written by a fellow babylost mommy. I saw it on facebook and was given permission to share with all of you. Just makes you think.
"At the end of the day when I crawl into bed and all the lights go out, my thoughts can finally rise to the surface.
Yes, I'm a little bruised, slightly broken, and permanently scarred,
but I'm still here aren't I?
I'm still fighting,
I'm still waking up everyday to go through it all over again.
At times this life may be hard as hell,
but it's still a gift and I'm going to live every moment of it."
Written by: Michelle Moist
This quote (as many have) really spoke to me. Our lives are forever changed. We forever have grief in our hearts, loss in our souls. We forever struggle with the fact that what we have experienced is permanent. There is no changing it. There is no getting our babies back.
I think this permanency was one of the many things that devoured my mind in the early days of losing Nicholas. I was completely devastated that our life as we knew it was drastically altered. That nothing would ever be the same again. Not only was I grieving my youngest son, I was grieving the loss of a beautiful, peaceful and content life with my family.
Family days would be different. Family pictures would be different. The holidays would be much different. My heart would eternally be different. The hearts of my husband and my living sons... would be different.
This has been one of the hardest things to accept throughout this lifelong journey of remembering Nicholas.
We have gone from deep, deep despair and sadness to feeling a sense of strength for enduring such heartache. We have gone from utter hopelessness to hopefullness in bringing a new baby home to our family. We have gone from missing our baby boy so intently in the ravages of new grief to remembering him, talking about him and including him in our family every chance we get.
I must admit that there are some days, some moments when the tidal wave of grief hits me again. That the permanency that is the loss of Nicholas breaks down my "strong" barrier. Just this past weekend, I had a day. A bad day. I cannont pinpoint what brought the wailing from my chest again, but it was there... and it was unstoppable for some time. It was the first time in a long time where I longed so desperately to hold Nicholas again. To have him safe inside me. To feel his soft skin on mine. I held his blanket that day, to my chest and imagined him wrapped in it again. In my mind I could feel him. It was real again. All too painfully real.
Of course, there is stress. Everyday life stress which just seems to multiply by 1000 when your heart is already heavy with grief. Will it always be that way? Will all of life's stresses ware us down that much quicker and easier because of the weight we will forever carry? I hope not.
My husband and I have, together, been somewhat unbreakable throughout this horribly difficult time. We have stuck it out together. We have cried together, held each other. We vow to keep Nicholas' memory alive, together.
But I don't think we actually grieve together.... which is natural, I guess. Lately it's been hard. Harder to express to each other how the other is feeling. Harder to try to guage each other... enough to help anyway.
There are work pressures, there are family and friend pressures. There are holiday pressures and new baby pressures. All pressures that are to be expected. Some that are completely uncalled for, but there, nonetheless.
I am sad. Sad that we have been forced to face some of these pressures. Stress that is unnecessary. Stress that could have been avoided. In some instances we have been placed in an impossible position - to honour our baby boy's memory with grace and dignity or to dust the whole experience and his existence under the rug in the name of family.
In some cases, family just seems to be a word. As far as I'm concerned you must earn the title. You must show you care. You must put down your own inhibitions and reach out in order to show love and support. In some cases, we have not seen this. We have been disappointed and disheartened. We have longed for acceptance, for some level of understanding and empathy. For whatever reason, it's just not there. And we are not prepared to pretend like it is.
We are not prepared to pretend like it's okay not to acknowledge Nicholas. Not for anyone. He is always a part of our life. A part of our family. The hardest thing for me to understand is that he is a part of our extended family too. They have suffered a great loss. I am the first to admit that, but one must show that he matters. One must show that our feelings matter when they are communicated. If this doesn't happen, we are forced to become defensive. A survival mechanism. A mechanism for surviving the death of our son.
The only thing we can do, as parents, for Nicholas now is to honour his memory, lovingly. When his memory is not honoured it stings and it stings very, very badly.
We will fight for him. We will love him. And we will honour his beautiful, short life until we meet again.
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