I Will Never Forget the Moment Your Heart Stopped
And mine kept beating...
Since then I feel as if I'm jumping off a cliff--every single day. But mid jump, it's like the rewind button is hit, and I end up on the edge of the cliff again.
With every jump, I get closer and closer to hitting the water. I know that eventually I will. I'm not sure what is scarier--not knowing when I'm actually going to hit the water or not sure if I'm able to swim and get out alive once I hit.
You think you're doing ok. You have a longer streak of OK days, but you know you're getting closer to the edge again.
At first I felt like I was wearing one of those big Sumo Wresting suits. I had this thick layer of shock surrounding me. It helps lessen the pain of the horrid truth. But with time, that layer thins out. Everyday the truth is a little more real--a little more painful.
I think of holding Arianna in my arms, and it brings tears instead of a smile. I think about her cute laugh, or the way she would cross her feet just like her daddy.
I read these poems and stories about how horrible it is for grieving mothers. I read a lot of similar ones that were about moms of children with special needs. It angered me. Why is everything always about the moms? I see my husband's pain. I've held him when he lets those tears out. His pain is very much just as real as mine. His struggles with being a parent of a child with special needs was just as real as mine. He is jumping off the very same cliff I am. Why in the world is everything always about the moms?
Then it hit me. My husband is not the normal. His love and concern for Arianna's well being was just as much as mine was. He has been not only a great provider for us, but he was so active in all the decisions we've made since the moment Arianna was born. His emotions have always been so raw when it comes to his baby girl. I've never seen this man be able to communicate his feelings so well.
The joy he had when I told him we were pregnant. The excitement he had at every single doctor's appointment. The fear in his eyes when labor and delivery didn't go as smoothly as we hoped. The love he had since the moment he saw Arianna. The sadness when we found out she was being transferred. The confidence he carried when he would question the doctors and nurses at the NICU. The smile he would get when he saw Arianna after a long day at work. How proud he would get with every milestone reached. The patience he had with every doctor's appointment. The fear he had in his eyes when held Arianna as she seized. The fear that never left throughout the following weeks. The sorrow he carried on his sleeve. The compassion with every touch to Arianna's little hands. The strength to carry her down the stairs one last time.
Our lives have been traumatically flipped upside down. I am blessed to have Gonz by my side, feeling every ounce of pain I do. Not a mother's pain--a parent's pain.
We will eventually hit the water. Maybe together, maybe not. But I do know that once we're both in, we will help each other get back to the shore. The waves will still hit us for the rest of our lives. That will never go away, nor would we ever want it too.
Since then I feel as if I'm jumping off a cliff--every single day. But mid jump, it's like the rewind button is hit, and I end up on the edge of the cliff again.
With every jump, I get closer and closer to hitting the water. I know that eventually I will. I'm not sure what is scarier--not knowing when I'm actually going to hit the water or not sure if I'm able to swim and get out alive once I hit.
You think you're doing ok. You have a longer streak of OK days, but you know you're getting closer to the edge again.
At first I felt like I was wearing one of those big Sumo Wresting suits. I had this thick layer of shock surrounding me. It helps lessen the pain of the horrid truth. But with time, that layer thins out. Everyday the truth is a little more real--a little more painful.
I think of holding Arianna in my arms, and it brings tears instead of a smile. I think about her cute laugh, or the way she would cross her feet just like her daddy.
I read these poems and stories about how horrible it is for grieving mothers. I read a lot of similar ones that were about moms of children with special needs. It angered me. Why is everything always about the moms? I see my husband's pain. I've held him when he lets those tears out. His pain is very much just as real as mine. His struggles with being a parent of a child with special needs was just as real as mine. He is jumping off the very same cliff I am. Why in the world is everything always about the moms?
Then it hit me. My husband is not the normal. His love and concern for Arianna's well being was just as much as mine was. He has been not only a great provider for us, but he was so active in all the decisions we've made since the moment Arianna was born. His emotions have always been so raw when it comes to his baby girl. I've never seen this man be able to communicate his feelings so well.
The joy he had when I told him we were pregnant. The excitement he had at every single doctor's appointment. The fear in his eyes when labor and delivery didn't go as smoothly as we hoped. The love he had since the moment he saw Arianna. The sadness when we found out she was being transferred. The confidence he carried when he would question the doctors and nurses at the NICU. The smile he would get when he saw Arianna after a long day at work. How proud he would get with every milestone reached. The patience he had with every doctor's appointment. The fear he had in his eyes when held Arianna as she seized. The fear that never left throughout the following weeks. The sorrow he carried on his sleeve. The compassion with every touch to Arianna's little hands. The strength to carry her down the stairs one last time.
Our lives have been traumatically flipped upside down. I am blessed to have Gonz by my side, feeling every ounce of pain I do. Not a mother's pain--a parent's pain.
We will eventually hit the water. Maybe together, maybe not. But I do know that once we're both in, we will help each other get back to the shore. The waves will still hit us for the rest of our lives. That will never go away, nor would we ever want it too.
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