The Truth
Every single day I wake up with a heavy heart; a pain in my chest that I'm sure will never subside.
Everyday I run through all the different scenarios and all the ways that maybe, just maybe, I could have saved my daughter's life. I know, just like every other bereaved parent does, that this is not helpful or healthy. You can't stop it though. And that is okay. It is okay to not be okay--even though everyone wants to tell us it will all be okay. You know when I'll be okay? The day I see my daughter's beautiful smile again. Until then, I will continue to replay the worst moments of my life over and over again trying to make some type of sense of how this could possibly happen. Most days I can think about it and even have flashbacks to that final month, and still function. Other times those flashbacks are so much stronger. I'm standing in the hallway at St. Catherine's being told Flight For Life is almost there. I can feel the cold floor beneath me as I sink down onto the floor. I'm waiting in the waiting room at Children's wondering why I haven't seen my daughter in hours. I can see the charge nurse standing in the doorway giving us updates. I'm watching them whisk my daughter away for an emergency MRI. I can feel the emptiness around us without her bed in the room. I can see the look on my husband's face as the doctor explains that this is serious, but we don't need to make any major decisions yet; right at that moment I hear something randomly fall across the room even though no one was by it. I see the look on the nurses' face when we are told we need to sign off on emergency brain surgery right away. I can feel the kleenex box fly out of my hand because I am so mad. Mad at God. Mad at Arianna, Mad at the doctors. Mad at myself. I can feel my daughter's lifeless body in my arms as she takes her very last breathe. I can feel her cold skin (she couldn't regulate her temperature the last month) against my lips and I kiss her. Over and over again. I can feel my face. Completely dry of tears because I can't even cry. If I start, I will never stop. Instead, I smile. And the family that is with us at the time probably thought I was crazy. How can I smile as my daughter takes her last breathe? Because I knew at that moment she was meeting her two grandpas who were going to spoil her rotten. I watch my husband carry her down and place her in the tiny coffin. I can feel my foot slip off the stair; I'm so thankful my brother in law is holding onto me otherwise I would have slid right down into my husband carrying Arianna. I can feel the cool fall air hit us as we sit at her gravesite. Our family surrounding us. The sun shining down so bright.
It's those flashbacks that bring on the intense grief attacks.
The grief attacks never occur at convenient times; it's always on an incredibly busy day where it takes everything you have to just face your responsibilities. You can try to outrun them. You may even be successful at running for sometime. But they catch up. They always catch up. And when they do--it's one hundred times harder. But when you finally let that wave crash into you, knock you right on your butt, and just ride it--it actually feels amazing. Amazing to let that tension out again. Amazing to be able to breathe a full breathe. It's cathartic.
Bereaved parents are living out every parents' worst nightmare. A nightmare so bad, many can't put themselves in our shoes. And that is ok. I wouldn't want to either. But understand that it is okay that bereaved parents aren't okay. We will never be okay. A piece of us is missing. Every time I laugh, I feel guilty. Does this mean I'm somehow happy without Arianna? Absolutely not. And I am okay with that. I will continue to live. I will continue to laugh and smile and cry
and scream. Because I am still alive. I will continue to carry on my daughter's memory. I will speak her name, I will share stories and videos and pictures. If and when we have more children, they will know all about their sister in Heaven. And the day I die, I will be so sad to leave behind those I love, but I will be ecstatic to see my baby girl.
When Carrie Fisher and her mom passed away just a day apart, all the support groups I'm in went crazy. How lucky was her mom to only have to live a day without her daughter. When bereaved parents say this, it is not suicidal. It is not because we don't love those around us. It is because we cannot wait to wrap our arms around our angels again. That is what gets me through every single day; knowing I am one day closer to seeing Arianna.
Everyday I run through all the different scenarios and all the ways that maybe, just maybe, I could have saved my daughter's life. I know, just like every other bereaved parent does, that this is not helpful or healthy. You can't stop it though. And that is okay. It is okay to not be okay--even though everyone wants to tell us it will all be okay. You know when I'll be okay? The day I see my daughter's beautiful smile again. Until then, I will continue to replay the worst moments of my life over and over again trying to make some type of sense of how this could possibly happen. Most days I can think about it and even have flashbacks to that final month, and still function. Other times those flashbacks are so much stronger. I'm standing in the hallway at St. Catherine's being told Flight For Life is almost there. I can feel the cold floor beneath me as I sink down onto the floor. I'm waiting in the waiting room at Children's wondering why I haven't seen my daughter in hours. I can see the charge nurse standing in the doorway giving us updates. I'm watching them whisk my daughter away for an emergency MRI. I can feel the emptiness around us without her bed in the room. I can see the look on my husband's face as the doctor explains that this is serious, but we don't need to make any major decisions yet; right at that moment I hear something randomly fall across the room even though no one was by it. I see the look on the nurses' face when we are told we need to sign off on emergency brain surgery right away. I can feel the kleenex box fly out of my hand because I am so mad. Mad at God. Mad at Arianna, Mad at the doctors. Mad at myself. I can feel my daughter's lifeless body in my arms as she takes her very last breathe. I can feel her cold skin (she couldn't regulate her temperature the last month) against my lips and I kiss her. Over and over again. I can feel my face. Completely dry of tears because I can't even cry. If I start, I will never stop. Instead, I smile. And the family that is with us at the time probably thought I was crazy. How can I smile as my daughter takes her last breathe? Because I knew at that moment she was meeting her two grandpas who were going to spoil her rotten. I watch my husband carry her down and place her in the tiny coffin. I can feel my foot slip off the stair; I'm so thankful my brother in law is holding onto me otherwise I would have slid right down into my husband carrying Arianna. I can feel the cool fall air hit us as we sit at her gravesite. Our family surrounding us. The sun shining down so bright.
It's those flashbacks that bring on the intense grief attacks.
The grief attacks never occur at convenient times; it's always on an incredibly busy day where it takes everything you have to just face your responsibilities. You can try to outrun them. You may even be successful at running for sometime. But they catch up. They always catch up. And when they do--it's one hundred times harder. But when you finally let that wave crash into you, knock you right on your butt, and just ride it--it actually feels amazing. Amazing to let that tension out again. Amazing to be able to breathe a full breathe. It's cathartic.
Bereaved parents are living out every parents' worst nightmare. A nightmare so bad, many can't put themselves in our shoes. And that is ok. I wouldn't want to either. But understand that it is okay that bereaved parents aren't okay. We will never be okay. A piece of us is missing. Every time I laugh, I feel guilty. Does this mean I'm somehow happy without Arianna? Absolutely not. And I am okay with that. I will continue to live. I will continue to laugh and smile and cry
and scream. Because I am still alive. I will continue to carry on my daughter's memory. I will speak her name, I will share stories and videos and pictures. If and when we have more children, they will know all about their sister in Heaven. And the day I die, I will be so sad to leave behind those I love, but I will be ecstatic to see my baby girl.
When Carrie Fisher and her mom passed away just a day apart, all the support groups I'm in went crazy. How lucky was her mom to only have to live a day without her daughter. When bereaved parents say this, it is not suicidal. It is not because we don't love those around us. It is because we cannot wait to wrap our arms around our angels again. That is what gets me through every single day; knowing I am one day closer to seeing Arianna.
I wish Heaven had a video camera so we could all see the look on PaPa Lenny's face when he finally met his precious baby girl. In her short time on earth, she should made a difference in this world. We love you all and are here for you every day! We love you Arianna, Heather & Gonzo! (And don't forget about the deer when we were at her Gravesite! That must of her & her PaPa's saying a little hello to you both!) <3
ReplyDeletePS, please continue to post her pictures & videos. I love seeing them all.
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