Most of my days I can handle the fact that I had a daughter who was stillborn. I can say it, I can remember it and I can look forward to the fact that I will see her again. I can answer my son’s questions, and validate his thoughts when he brings her up. I can be strong for him. I can be strong for myself. The funny thing is that lately when I have told people that things are much better most are happy for me and glad for our healing and the strength that God has given. Often though, when I express that thought, someone will say to me or email me to remind me that “Grief is like that. One day you will feel better, but then you will feel worse again.” Or, my favorite, “It’s not over yet”. I just nod my head and smile, but inside my brain is screaming “Do you not think I know this?” Like I don’t know that there are and will always be days when the pain of losing her washes over me like a wave, ripping off any protection that I have built up against that hurt. And the reality is that for my whole life this will continue to happen. That is why there is no such thing as “getting over it”. There is only healing and moving forward, but never getting to a place where grief cannot reach out and grip your heart.

Last week was one of those good moments when I can hold it together. I was in the grocery store with my son and then for no reason at all, in the middle of the pasta, he looked up at me and said “I still miss my baby sister.” He told me of how he wished he could feed her baby food and push her stroller and then he showed me what he thought happened when she died by making a cartoonish last gasp and falling backwards onto the floor. So with people all walking past us, I bent down and talked to him. I didn’t want to whisper because I don’t want him to ever feel discomfort or shame talking about her, so in a normal voice I reassured him that she didn’t die like that and reminded him that he saw her and that she was peaceful and beautiful. He looked up at me from my makeshift lap squatting down in the aisle and said “I want to have another one that will come home and live with us”. I hugged him and we stood up and carried on to the checkout. That day I did it.

The next day was Ash Wednesday, and as our reverend spoke on his meditation about “storing your treasures in Heaven” I couldn’t help but think about my treasure, stored for me, so I just looked up at the ceiling and tried to delay the tears from coming, and as I walked up to receive my ashen cross I continued to stop them. I made it until I picked my son up in the nursery and he kept demanding to know what the cross was for and wanted me to make one for him so I did and while buckling him into his car seat I said that the cross reminds us all that we will someday die and go to Jesus. He nodded in agreement and then opened his arms wide saying with all the enthusiasm in the world “And I will say ‘Baby Sister, I am SO HAPPY to see you’”! It was then that I did lose it. The covering that builds up each day as I focus on life and living and on loving and on the good parts of what I shared with my daughter was ripped off. I laid my head on his lap and cried.

It’s like most of the time; the true reality of what we have lost doesn’t always sink in. I feel like my son sometimes when he thinks she might just show up anyway…. Sometimes I feel like this loss will soften, like there is some end to it, but these times bring the reality quickly. I will live my whole with this. I can look at babies and play with them. I can see baby clothes and be okay, but one day I heard a baby cry and I had to excuse myself from the room. The stark contrast between that living child and the silence that filled the room when my own daughter was born with no movement…no sound, was too much for me.

And this will be my life. Some days I know I can handle it. Some days I think I’ll never make it down this path put before me carrying that burden. I know, though, that I have no choice and that all my life I will have times where grief overcomes me. It’s a reality I can’t escape and I truly no one should worry that I will forget it. I won’t.