It’s almost amazing to me, that after almost six years, I can still vividly imagine those moments back in March of 2004 when my world turned on it’s ear and the new “me” was born. You would think, wrongly perhaps, that such things would dull and fade with time. That new experiences, new joys, new heartaches and memories aplenty would blunt the sharp agony that is losing a child.
You would be wrong, of course.
Maybe it’s different, because I wasn’t blogging back then. I was just keeping a handwritten journal. But there is no community attached to a handwritten journal. And somehow, not having the acknowledgment, makes it almost feel like it happened even longer ago than it did. Maybe because it feels like I have been blogging for forever and a day. And I am sometimes left to wonder if the people who know me now, who didn’t know me then, know just what it was like. If they can appreciate how that moment changed me. If they understand that I feel, every single day, just what I lost.
I was reading, just today, about another blogger who just had the bottom fall out from underneath her. She said:
If I started panicking, it was more of a numb kind, not like the adrenaline that pumps through your body as you narrowly avoid a car accident. It was just, well, like watching yourself in a dream.
And, oh my stars, reading that brought it all back. Because that is EXACTLY what it feels like. Over the years, you become used to the sensation of panic being one of a heart racing (and mine was, but it was almost as though I couldn’t feel that), a hysterical giggle rising in your throat, a call to action. And shocking loss like this, well, it causes you to react so very differently. Because instead of speeding up, everything slows down. You become aware of yourself in a third-person sort of way, as if you were floating over your body, looking down from the ceiling. You hear your own voice and don’t recognize it. Your mind, not wanting to comprehend what is happening, starts to drift backwards. It’s surreal. It’s agony.
Unlike Eve, I had a feeling as soon as they had a hard time finding the heartbeat. While I didn’t technically have a grasp on just what it was I truly feared, I had that fear. I had that fear all the way to the hospital, actually, as the niggling voice asked ever so quietly, “When did you last feel him move?” Even so, fear and suspicion doesn’t cover the shock. And the numbness. And the agony that settles into your bones.
That agony never really leaves you. Even six years later, I can still recall it and feel it and burn with it at a moment’s notice.
Because once the bottom falls out, it never really rights itself again. You just define a “new normal”. And you move forward the best you.
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3 Responses to “When the bottom falls out”
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I totally thought of you and Jackson yesterday. I was watching Oprah, which I rarely do, and there was a story about a family who had lost a child a few years ago. The mom said something about the whole month having a new meaning and wanting to skip it entirely every year, and it reminded me of our hatred of March. Evie changed that, but it’s still hard to shake that feeling of dread as the date approaches. *hug*
I remember very vividly when the bottom fell out for me. It was pure hell and it still hurts even after a year and a half. Today would be my baby’s first birthday. When I try to talk about it or tell people how I feel they say “But there will be another first birthday when you adopt”..but they will never fully understand and quite frankly they never will because it wasn’t their child, it wasn’t their loss. It cuts so very deeply and it did change me forever. I know I’m not alone because many women have this experience, but it’s horrible that we even have to have this experience.
I’m so sorry. I was reading your blog, getting ready to contact you for a PR pitch, when I saw this post – and the one about losing your child. I just wanted to say that I am so very sorry about your loss.
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