Three years. How can that feel so far away, but also like no time has passed… if I’m being completely honest with myself, the first word that pops into my head is guilt. It’s something I’ve worked on a lot with my counselor. My dad’s mom lost her daughter to a brain aneurysm. My dad’s brother and sister-in-law lost their daughter due to preeclampsia. Their names were Linda and Lindsey. I spoke with my aunt and grandma this last year about losing daughters and the feeling that I can’t quite sort out how I’m meant to feel or go on. My aunt said that even now there are times where she is taken aback by the grief. She mentioned seeing a mom shopping with her daughter for a dress to wear to a dance and how even after decades had passed, it hurst so badly that she had to leave the store immediately. My grandma shared that even to this day, there will be times were the grief is overwhelming and feels unbearable. The truth is, it will never go away… but, they also shared with me that they have learned that you cannot hold yourself back from life or from other feelings because of guilt. That our daughters wouldn’t want us to be sitting in these feelings and not allowing ourselves to move forward. Not move on, but move forward. I’ve thought of this sentiment a lot over the last year. It’s still something I struggle with, because three years down the road, here I sit feeling guilty.
Evie, I feel guilty that I don’t sit in your room and think of you more often. I feel guilty that I don’t look at your pictures or videos more often. I feel guilty that I don’t post pictures of you or speak to moms in my loss groups more often. I feel guilty that I’m not devoting enough of my time, life, and love to you. The truth is, it still hurts too badly to do those things. When I allow myself those moments, I feel like I’m slipping right back into a dark, bottomless pit. There is still not clarity, reason, or hope down there. It hurts too much. So, I’m selfish, and I avoid. I still think of you everyday- you come and go in my mind and heart constantly, but I don’t allow myself to sit quietly and dive deeper into our memories. Not yet.
I’m surprised by the path of grief. I remember my first counselor saying, while everyone is different, grief takes around a year to go through. In some ways, I guess I was able to get back to a lot of aspects of my life after a year, but I don’t feel anywhere near the end of the grieving process. In my mind, I picture the end of the grieving process as a place where I can sit, look at pictures of you, remember our time together and feel a sense of peace and happiness. I want that so badly, and I’m scared I’ll never get it. It scares me because it makes me feel like I’m choosing you or feeling okay. Like I’m having to choose survival over honoring you, and I hate that feeling so much. I want both. I want to feel okay, and I want to be close to you always. This is my guilt.
All I can do is continue to walk this road and hope for brighter days where I might reach that sense of peace. I just hope that you know my guilt and my survival tactics are not a reflection of apathy, but rather a reflection of how powerful my love for you is. I love you so much that I still can’t bear to think too hard on how you are not here with me.
Today, I will let myself go to those uncomfortable places. Those scary memories, because there were a lot of them. A lot of those days I got to have with you were also filled with fear, and it is just the ugly truth about it. I was so scared. I remember sitting in the hospital with my mom eating lunch when the ultrasound tech came in. She was so quiet. It only took one second after the doctor came in to announce that you’d be coming that day, February 3rd. 13 weeks early. Too early. I hardly remember the rest of the day. I know all our family came in. I remember your aunt and uncle giving me the “E” necklace. I remember being wheeled into the operating room. I remember your one loud cry before you were whisked away from me. I remember the next 21 days so well. I remember the kindness of the nurses and RTs, I remember my own mom being by my side nearly every single day, I remember desperately wanting to be able to hold you, help you, anything. I remember when your dad and I came in 21 days later, shaken up, but telling each other we had to be positive for you. But before we could even walk down the hallway to your room, nurses came and took us aside. We knew then. We knew what they were and weren’t saying. There was so much fear, Evie, but I hope you felt all the love, too. You were loved by every single person that laid eyes on you, and hundreds more who didn’t get the chance to.
Sometimes when I’m thinking of you, I try to picture what you’d be like now. I picture little Izzy, one month older than you. I picture you being a bit shorter than her, blond hair. I imagine your little hand reaching out and holding mine and me looking down at your sweet face. I imagine how you’d have your dad wrapped around your finger and how spoiled by your grandparents, aunts, and uncles you’d be. The little girl in a big family of boys. I imagine dressing you in the girliest of outfits. I imagine you dancing around the living room. I imagine your laugh and your smile. It is such a strange feeling, but I feel like I miss that. Like it’s something I had and lost, instead of something I never got to see. I think I’ll spend my whole life missing you.
Somehow, one year turned into two, then into three. I honestly can’t believe it’s already been three years. The love I have for my family and friends has only grown stronger by their continued love and devotion to you, Evie. My deepest fear of being the only ones who remember you is long gone. You are still so loved and cherished by so many, and I’m so grateful for that, because you deserve it. You are the sweetest, strongest, most powerful girl I’ve ever met. You always will be. I love you more than life itself, Evelyn. Happy golden birthday, sweet girl.
