Grief

Our home smells of lilies.  We are enveloped by beauty honoring our daughter.  We have felt so surrounded by love from family and friends.  Things are quieting down, and we are feeling okay with that. 

Grief is an incomprehensible state to those who have not experienced it in its fullness.  Every cell of my body aches.  Any tiny movement I make is painful.  Every sound I hear is hard to process.  Each exclamation point I see is like a small needle, relentlessly pricking me with reminders of happiness that are not my own.  Movements are slow.  I tuck myself in fetal position, instinctively knowing that this is the only way to heal.  I whimper and sob, primally following in the footsteps of mothers before me who have lost children.  I ask questions that make sense only on an emotional level, asking often, silently and aloud, “Where is she?  Where is my baby?”  I allow myself to hurt deeply, to have others provide for my every need, to not take care of my physical needs in order to tend to the needs of grief. 

I have removed very few of Julia’s things so far.  Her burp cloths still sit in the family room, and her diapers are in their usual place.  The breast pump continues to sit by my bedside as I slowly wean the hated machine.  Julia’s bottle rack was moved only to make room for the beautiful flower arrangements that now occupy that place, and her medicines thrown away to make space for food that others generously provided.  We have not fully unpacked our hospital bags, and her car seat sits waiting for her in our room.  Looking at the clothes that I wore on the night that she died brings visceral pain. 

And yet, the needs of our two-year-old are very real and bring us joy as well as reminders of the importance of continuing on.  Many have asked us how she is.  Precious Natalie accompanied my mother and sister to the hospital in the middle of the night as they journeyed to say good-bye to Julia.  She played in a playroom as we rotated supervising her while others kissed Julia a final good night.   Shakily, Taylor and I told her that the doctors couldn’t fix Julia’s booboo (we had told her previously that Julia had a booboo on her heart), and that we were very sad because that meant that Julia wasn’t going to live with us any more.  But, we said, we were also so happy because Julia is now living with Jesus.  Natalie processed this, and then wanted to play with the next toy.  She is a deeply sensitive toddler and doesn’t miss a thing, so I’m sure we will revisit this conversation in the future, especially as our routine returns to normal and Julia is not part of it.  But for now, Natalie has been so distracted by all of her visitors that we have only mentioned Julia a few times.   One morning she awoke and wanted to know where Julia was.  Another day she said she wanted to turn on Julia’s music box. 

Natalie has been saying something that she never said before. – “I’m afraid.  I afraid I gonna get hurt.”  And I think this means she is afraid she will get a booboo that will make her not live with mommy and daddy any more.  So we have been constantly reassuring her that she does not have to be afraid, and that she will always be with mommy and daddy. 

From Natalie, too, come our least expected holy moments.  A few days ago she was examining a flower arrangement, and I handed her a rosebud that had broken off.  She placed it back in the arrangement and identified it as the “baby.”  She proceeded to point out the mommy, the daddy, and then asked, “Where’s Natalie?”  We found a Natalie flower and joined it closely with mommy, daddy, and baby.

There was also the moment today when she began singing the chorus to Mumford and Sons’ song, “I Will Wait for You.”  It brought all of us to tears.  And then there was the beautiful moment at Julia’s service in which Natalie, who had been running around the foyer, arrived at the icon of Jesus’s death and said, “I running to the cross!”  We all are, dear girl.