The post in which you have to tell people that your entire world came crashing down. The one where you have to find some sort of delicate way to put it that your baby didn't make it. They passed away, they gained their wings, they fell asleep, they are no longer hurting. The truth is, my daughter died on February 24th, 2020. My daughter died. And while it is hard for me to even process this in my own mind, I still have to make sure that I find softer ways to say it for others. Just another part of grieving a child that isn't fair. If you have been through it, you know exactly what I am talking about.
What I really want to say to people is- Yes, my daughter died... but she also lived. She was here, she was her own person, she filled our hearts until they overflowed. She mattered so much, and she deserves to be remembered and spoken about. She deserves for her life to be acknowledged and celebrated. She died on that horrible morning of February 24th, but she also lived. A very tough but beautiful life. Here is her story...
My husband and I have been together for 10 years now, but only just got married in July of 2019. We've known for a very long time that we wanted to be parents and felt no reason to wait any longer. We found out we were pregnant with our baby in August 2019. I remember feeling somewhat guilty that we were able to get pregnant so quickly and easily. I remember thinking it must feel unfair to women who struggle to have babies to see someone like me getting it all so easily. I had no idea that I eventually would find myself on the other end of these feelings.
Fast forward to January 2020 when our entire world was turned upside down. I found myself sitting in a hospital bed at 25 weeks along listening to doctors telling me that I would need to stay there until my baby would be delivered. Due to early-onset preeclampsia, they told me that they would try to get me as far along as possible, but that we would need to take it day by day, week by week. After a few days, I began to settle into the fact that I was going to be there for potentially 3 months. I knew in my heart I would hit the milestones they were telling me- 28 weeks would be huge, 30 weeks would be amazing, 32 weeks would be incredible! 10 days after being admitted, I had an ultrasound that led to the doctors telling me that my sweet baby girl, at 26w6d, would need to come out that day, February 3rd.
I laid in that hospital bed for 8 hours, panicking about having a c-section, whether or not she would make it through delivery, and what would happen next if she did. On February 3rd, 2020 at 8:36 p.m., my absolutely perfect baby girl, Evelyn Elizabeth Zink, entered this world with a fiery spirit that she kept with her throughout her entire life. I immediately felt overwhelmingly protective of her and hated that she was being taken away from me. I wouldn't be able to see her for at least 24 hours due to a medication they had given me, and it was absolutely the longest day of my life up to that point.
The next three weeks, we spent nearly our entire lives in the NICU. It was the most exhausting, emotional, stressful, and yet loving experience imaginable. Evelyn proved herself to be an absolute fighter, earning her nickname "The Mighty Evie". That girl was fierce and stronger than any human I've ever met. She had a way of emanating love and warming the spirits of anybody lucky enough to be in her presence. She stole everyone who met her's hearts right away. She was incredibly sassy, somehow. I have no idea how such a little bundle, who couldn't make any noises, could be so damn expressive. The nurses and RTs knew exactly how she felt about everything they were doing- her side eye was strong! She had a way of drawing you in and making you feel like everything in the world was going to be okay.
The first time she opened her eyes and looked into mine, I knew I would never be the same. That is my daughter and I am her mother. In that moment, I felt absolute connection with her- my heart, my soul, my life, were entwined with hers. When she died, I knew a piece of me did, too.
She fought so hard and did everything she could. I am so proud of the strength she showed. It wasn't enough. My sweet girl was dealt an unfair hand, and her lungs were not developing enough. They didn't develop enough to fight the pneumonia that eventually took her from us on that horrible, dark, life defining night and early morning.
She amazed me every second I was with her, from inside my belly to holding my finger to lying in my arms drawing her last breath. She amazed me with her strength, warmth, and beauty. She amazed me by how she lived her life. I can't stand the idea of such an amazing life being lost in the past.
So, although my daughter died, I want to remind everyone that she also lived. She lived a beautiful and unique life. One that was cut entirely too soon, but one that was amazing, nonetheless. Please, let's normalize talking about grief. Let's normalize talking about losing a child. Let's normalize talking about our babies. People don't talk about grief, because people don't know how to talk about grief. Let's show them how, because I am not okay with letting Evelyn's life disappear due to fear of awkward conversations or uncomfortable responses. Evelyn's life is important. Every single one of their lives is important. 💟
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