This unusual, raw post is because of a project started at Still Life with Circles. Unusual because this blog has become more about Emily’s survival than my/our grief for Nadia. But I felt like I needed to share this side of the story. I rely on an online community of babylost parents, mothers and fathers that I have never met, who blog about their losses and let me know that no matter where I am at exactly two years later, it is okay.
Where I am at two years later is living a bittersweet life. I am set apart from a lot of babylost parents because I have Nadia’s identical twin sister to remind me of exactly how long it has been. I don’t strain to imagine what Nadia would look like, or wonder too much about what she would be doing now. I only ponder which girl would have done it first.
I have learned that time does not heal. It doesn’t get any easier with time, really, but sometimes you just get tired of being sad, or talking about it, or even being defined by it. I’ve tried medication and I’ve tried counseling. Grief is exhausting. I still cry almost every single day. Sometimes it’s just a teardrop or two, sometimes it is the lay-on-the-floor-in-the-fetal-position sobs. Not a day goes by that I am not over the moon thankful for Emily. There isn’t a day that goes by where I am not thinking about Nadia. But as Emily becomes less of a preemie and more of a typical two year old, it feels further and further away from Nadia, and at those times it almost seems worse than when our loss was new. And just when I think I am getting better, I get knocked down again. It’s every holiday, anniversary, birthday. And then there are the unexpected triggers. Those unpredictable things that are the salt to my wounds, my scabs ripped off.
The first 71 days, those days in the NICU with just Emily, were actually the easiest. I’m sure if I had been a mom of a singleton who had passed, I would be the sort of person to stay in bed. Eating and showering probably wouldn’t have any importance. But instead I had Emily. I had to get out of bed, and shower, and eat. I had to be to the NICU in time for the neonatologists’ morning rounds. I had to be clean to keep her safe. And those days when she was sickest, breast milk was the only mothering thing I could give her. Besides, those nurses, doctors, patient care coordinators, chaplains, and social workers were the only ones after family left that knew Nadia alive. And I didn’t have to leave the hospital completely empty handed. I didn’t have to come home with an empty carseat, or decide when to take down the nursery. I didn’t have my milk drying up as a reminder or have to discuss with doctors about trying to conceive again. My life was still filled with caring for a newborn, it was just one and not two.
Then we came home and time was spent with physical therapists and doctor follow ups and eye appointments and hearing appointments and medication schedules and evaluations. It was busy, and I was sad, but I survived.
But then time goes by and we fell into a routine and then it really started to hit me what I was missing out on. All of a sudden I realized how many twins are out there – at the store, in a book, on television. It seemed like so many other moms got what I had so badly wanted. And then there’s the small talk. Innocent people do not realize how painful small talk can be –“Is she your first?” “Is she your only?” “Are you going to try for number 2?” and simply “How are you today?” All insignificant questions over lunch, or in line to check out at a store, from someone without knowing how much pain they cause me. The fact that I cause myself more pain by answering yes she is my first, my only, and no number 2. Silently apologizing to Nadia because it’s easier to not cause the STRANGER to be uncomfortable. People sharing news of pregnancy, happy birth stories, or difficulties of raising multiple children are all things that make me quietly cringe or shed a tear. Meanwhile, I don’t want to always be THAT person, the one where I have to be protected from conversations because I have lost a child. I hate being the one that knows that not all pregnancies and births are joyful. That although I have come to count on my online community to get me through, I also hate knowing that there is no safe point. That things can happen at weeks 0-12, 13-26, 27-40, and that even more tragic and unexpected things happen after that, and sometimes there are no answers or explanations.
Where am I at two years later? I am still confused. I tend to over think how two identical girls can have such different outcomes. I still rehash medical decisions, wondering if things could be different. I stress. I stress about how to include Nadia in holidays and celebrations. I stress about today, 2 years later, so that this day is recognized but not dreaded. Doing something special makes it feel like a celebration. Ignoring it is impossible. I worry. I worry a lot. I worry the house will burn down and Nadia’s ashes won’t be saved. I worry that everything I read about twin loss suggests the surviving twin grows up lonely, has imaginary friends, and has difficulties in social situations. I worry how to raise Emily as an only child. I worry that all of those tragic illnesses and accidents I read about happening to toddlers will happen to Emily. I worry that this was entirely my fault. I worry that I cannot parent Emily with 100% happiness although I do it with 100% love.
photos from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep
