Attempting to carry on

 I still have to remind myself every morning when I wake up that Bridget has left us. It has been almost 4 gut-wrenching, grief-filled, months of stumbling around, trying to resemble a human being functioning in the world. Although I want to be selfish and bring her back to us, I know that Heaven is where she needs to be. Her body fought so hard, for so long, and as her mother, I couldn’t be more proud of who she was. Her bravery and strength will always be something that I admire and work hard to achieve in myself.

I find myself rehashing every last minute of Bridget’s final days here on earth. Second-guessing, questioning, and hoping that we did everything to make her life as protected, loved, and comfortable as possible. I’m finding it quite difficult that I don’t see signs everywhere from her. I don’t know why I had it in my mind that I would get these miraculous visions or miracles from Bridget regularly…but it’s stuck there in my heart…the lingering desire for closeness. I so desperately hope that Bridget knew how much she was and is still loved. Not a day goes by that her name is not spoken many times. 

I’ve found that grief knows no strangers. It can be sneaky and conniving. It can also stem from beautiful moments solidified in time. My journey with grief, so far, has been nothing short of a nightmare. Waking up every morning grasping the fact, over and over, that your child has died, is an unbearable pain. We are meant to protect our children from any and all distress. I feel like I failed in that department. And of course I know what people will say, yes we did do everything in our power to sustain her life as long as we possibly could…but nothing, and no one, will ever change that broken feeling that hides deep in my soul. 

There are so many moments in time that I have found myself thinking that Bridget was still here, present on earth. At times the kids will be playing with my husband (tackling and being silly), and I have to stop myself from thinking we had to be quiet because Bridget was sleeping. The realization that any family photo from here on out won’t ever be fully complete. It’s like a grief gut-punch. It can physically knock the air out of you when you finally snap back to reality. 

I’ve heard, in the past, that when a parent loses a child, they wear their pain and sorrow on their face forever. I understand that now…because I see it in myself. It’s almost like this permanent vail that drapes over my face. Before I see anything else at all, I see glimpses and memories of Bridget…the veil. Some days I’m truly not sure how I’m even standing. The weight of it all is absolutely crushing and can take you to your knees at any given moment throughout the day.

I was trying to adequately explain, to the best of my ability, what it feels like to be in this space after losing your child. The best way I could describe it would be feeling like I’m stuck in an airport. Everyone and everything around me are moving. There are so many places to go and people to meet. Everyone has a destination. Yet I find myself stuck on the moving walkway being pushed forward. I’m unable to get myself off of the walkway, but I’m not ready to be moving yet. I want to stay in this space where I feel close to my daughter, but I am being forced forward into “the real world”. Forced to just do my best to try to carry on.

Just the other night, I attended a memorial service put on by UNITYPOINT Hospice. I guess they do a service twice a year to allow families to remember their loved ones. Michael had to be at baseball, so I attended with Luke and Greta. I asked a close friend to go with me (as she had been critical in the final care of Bridget). After some time, my friend took the kids out so I could have a brief moment. I was alone. Surrounded by so much grief and love. I whole-heartedly shattered in that moment. I feel as though I’ve been trying to fight my grief lately, but it all caught up to me in that moment. I realized there is no hiding from grief. You can’t shove it off. You can’t ignore it. It is always there. 

I want to thank everyone again for thinking of us during this time. This has 100% been the worst year of my life. I can’t tell you how much it means to still have friends and loved ones sending me pictures of Bridget, sharing stories, and helping to keep her memory alive in our hearts. We appreciate it more than you will ever know.