December Never Felt So Wrong
The words of a song have hit me so strongly as I navigate this unknown path without Willa during holidays and winter.
A six week postpartum checkup without a baby in tow is perhaps one of the most difficult appointments to keep. No baby carrier nestling a newborn to show off to the office staff, and no belly poking out past my toes. Instead, I carried Willa's precious photos and the current inspirational book I was reading about infant loss called "Gone Too Soon." I sat down and sighed waiting for my name to be called, trying to hold back the tears and avoid eye contact with all the pregnant women around me.
Blood pressure was perfect, weight a little high (no surprise), incision completely healed, and to top it off I had already successfully had one period. "Look at me - all recovered," I said to the nurse. My body has fully healed from two pregnancies, one miscarriage, and one c-section all in less than 12 months. The only indication of the nightmare I have lived through is the massive empty hole carved in my heart - the one that aches to hold my precious babies. The pieces of me that left when their little heart beats stopped. Losing Willa was the hardest blow. My miracle baby. The one I waited for and wanted so badly, the one I fell madly in love with during the last few months of my pregnancy. The one I held and kissed. The one I cried countless tears over, and the one I buried.
That emptiness never heals. There are times when I am able to mask the sound it makes in my soul, but mostly I embrace it because it was created by her.
Being prone to postpartum depression and the winter blues left me on the precipice of the cliffs of depression, and Willa's birth and unexpected death plunged me right over the edge. Despite my "I am fine - I just need to start running" reply to my doctor about my emotional state, she recommended an anti-depressant to get me through the winter. I had used similar medication before and did not like the "zombie" feeling it left me with, but I also realized that I was unable to climb back out of this valley alone. I agreed to temporarily try it until I could get a grasp on life again, and immediately felt the effects.
The tears have stopped. The emotion - every emotion has stopped. I can talk about her to others - their eyes are full of tears and mine are dry. I feel balanced and less agitated. But I also feel void and empty - like it all happened years ago and is just a faded memory. I don't want to lose her memory that quickly, and I feel utterly stuck. I have opted to cut the dose in half, hoping to find the relief while still being able to feel all the emotions that my soul needs to express.
If there is one thing I have learned about infant loss - it is that there are no instructions. No manual or flowchart explaining what comes next. Every parent is different, and every grief package is individual. No one can tell me how to simultaneously live each day and mourn the loss of Willa and the empty spot she left in my heart and our home. No one can prepare me for the triggers that happen unexpectedly in a world brimming with babies and expecting mommies. I simply must live one day at a time and embrace what comes from either side of this valley, despite how wrong it feels or unknown it is.
.
.
"December never felt so wrong, cause you're not where you belong -
inside my arms."
inside my arms."
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