After the T21 diagnosis, I grew accustomed to sleeping things off. When I wake, it takes me a while to remember the current environment and the temporary confusion helps me deal with some of my emotions. But some days are more difficult than others and sleeping resolves nothing ... like today.
Today I had to pick up my daughter's remains from the funeral home where she was cremated. It was awkward walking in. I was aware of every stride. How I was posed. I didn't want to talk or breathe. Even letting the director know who we were and why we were there was forced. The words "I'm here to pick up my daughter" were awful. They sounded foreign and they bruised my tongue. Their finality and coldness triggers melancholy. But that is what I had to say to move forward.
When the director left so that he could retrieve Nahuatl, we were in front and I saw all the different sized urns showcased on the wall. They were overwhelming. But it wasn't until I looked upon the tiniest urn that I began to cry. I kept thinking urns shouldn't be that small. My anguish increased when the director returned with a tiny little bag that had a tiny little tin can inside. Nahuatl used to fit inside me and now she lives in a tiny little can inside a tiny little bag.
I'm good at compartmentalizing my feelings. Finding a space and never thinking about them again. And that's all I want to do with today. But my therapist says that's not the way people heal. That the grieving process lingers when compartmentalizing. That's why I'm allowing myself to feel this. Well ... partly why. I trust my therapist and I want to be happy again, but I also want to think about Nahuatl without feeling empty. I have no stories to tell of her. Just that she was a hell of kicker for having four toes on one foot. And that I pictured her bouncing her head up against my uterus whenever I sloshed her around when running for the bus. But I have no real memories of her life like where she spent her 1st birthday. No pictures of her first laugh, her first experience touching water, or the first time she fell asleep in my arms. She lived inside me for 5 months. So I don't have any life stories. But I have the life I dreamed for her, holidays, outings, travels, and I want to be able to think about them without feeling robbed. Thinking about her keeps her from disappearing. And that is important to me because her presence is every part of my family as my husband and I are. She is very much loved and was very much wanted. So I am hoping that allowing myself to go through this grief and loss will somehow get me to accept what happened so that I can think about her without growing silent.
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