We are approaching the 1-year mark. How the heck did that go by so quickly? The closer we get to it, the more anxious I get. I worry not about the sadness and grief that will wash over me (that's a daily thing), but I worry about the passing of time. I get seriously sad about every single day that passes since we lost her. The further we get from that day, her birthday to me, but the day she died to me as well, I am sick with sadness that I don't have her with me and as time moves forward, I am further away from the day that I held her in my arms. I hate that.
I rely on "4 hours and 29 minutes". The length of Lillian's life. You know who I'm jealous of? The mommy that got her baby for 4 hours and 30 minutes and in order, then I'm jealous of the mommy that got her baby for 4 hours and 31 minutes...all the way to the mommies that just simply get their babies.
These last months have been a blurry mix of sadness, bittersweet happiness, deep love and nostalgia along with panic, pain and heartbreak, loneliness and a longing that I cannot describe. I still have that physical hunger for my daughter. I don't think that's something that will ever go away, not when yours was the body that grew hers. It's a terrible feeling; and one that you can never ever understand unless this has happened to you. It's very hard to describe.
Each day that ticks by, and I lift my head up again, and I move about my days again, I notice things that I didn't notice before. I look at little kids and I know exactly how old they are by looking at them. I always notice the ones that are Lillian's age...(or rather what would be Lillian's age). I see her in their faces. If their moms or dads are holding their arms up and above their heads, as they lead them in taking those adorable, shaky first steps, or are wiping their messy faces while they take tiny bites of things, I think of her. I try to imagine what her face would look like now. What color her hair would be. I long for the deep exhaustion that comes with a new baby. That over this any day. Then, I think of her eyes. Would they look exactly like mine? Like Jason's? Or would they be a blue all her own, that would be a perfect mix of both of ours? Uniquely Lily's?
Everything just looks and feels and is different. Including me. I have various people in various areas of my life that probably don't realize just how different everything is for me, for us. Most do of course, but there are definitely some that don't get it. Just because we both get out of bed every day, and we go to work every day and we fake it through things like meetings, and gatherings (when we actually say yes to attending something), and Mother's Day and Father's Day (this weekend), doesn't mean we're "all better".
Every single thing shifted the day we lost Lillian. There are priorities, actual and emotional, that have shifted for me. I no longer have space in my mind or in my heart to inherit other people's grudges or traumas or dramas. I don't care about anything else other than my husband and our family and close friends. There is no more room for anything else. The loss of Lillian is way too big and takes up way too much emotional space for me to care about anything else. I think in my younger days I would make other people's battles my own, I'd made that my way of being a good friend to people, "stand with your friends and help them fight their battles" was a thing I lived by. I just don't have that in me anymore. The people that think that I do, are simply remembering a version of me from the past. Like I said, everything is different.
There's nothing like a major loss like this one to force you to reorganize your priorities.
There's both an unpenetrable aspect of what has become of me, and a fragility that has emerged. At once, I feel untouchable - "go ahead, give it your best shot, nothing's going to get to me", because, after this, there isn't anything that can get under my skin anymore; yet there's a vulnerability that lives just under my surface that brings me to my knees regularly. It's a terribly conflicting feeling.
This weekend would have been Jason's first Father's Day with his daughter. Instead, this weekend has become just his first Father's Day as a father. Big difference.
Though it's probably not front of mind for Jason right now as I type this, I suspect it will sneak up on him on Sunday; and I'll be there to help him fight that battle because he is my priority. We will still celebrate Father's Day on Sunday because he is still a daddy, even though the person that made him one hasn't been in his arms for 11 months, that doesn't change a thing for him.
