A Day in the Life
Several months ago, a friend confessed to me, "It's easy to be so caught up in our own lives, the busy pace of our normal, that we forget the stalled, hurting ones. The friends sitting on the sidelines, derailed by personal trauma." Basically, if you aren't walking in the brutal reality of another's shoes, their suffering is simply a blip on your emotional radar. Another thing to "sad face" on social media. And, of course, this is true for every one of us to a point. Even being granted perfect communication and empathy, we'd still lack full comprehension of the joys and sorrows of our dearest companions, just by virtue of being a separate entity. We cannot physically live out someone else's experience.
To that end, I share this narrative. It's difficult to swallow, even for me. But maybe it will ring true for other loss and trauma survivors, for my fellow grief warriors. Because while each of our stories may be different, the constancy of the pain expressed here is NOT an exaggeration. It's what we live with on the daily. It lurks around the corner each day, even sunshine-y ones, threatening to steal any comfort we've accumulated. That's why I implore you outsiders: Check on your grieving friends; be a safe place where they can process feelings without judgement or unsolicited feedback. It doesn't matter how many days, weeks, months, or years it has been. "Normal" is destroyed for them and they can't go back. No matter how desperately they wish they could.
Without any further expounding or explaining, I present: A Day in the Life of Laura. ((Read: The true events/emotions recorded below happened over the course of months, but have been condensed into a single day for brevity's sake.))
3 a.m: I blearily focus on the clock. Damn. Not this again.
Memories of THAT night flood back. Waking at 3 and not feeling Margot wiggling around like usual. Telling myself if she doesn't move in 5 minutes, I'll wake David. Sitting on our bathroom floor waiting in dread. Not finding her heartbeat with our purchased doppler. The charged atmosphere of our late interstate drive to the hospital, my heart turning to stone inside me.
I look up at the ceiling, telling myself not to relive these painful moments. "It doesn't change anything, Laura. Just close your eyes and go back to sleep." Despite best efforts otherwise, my brain insists on replaying every.single.detail. When sleep finally comes, it is a black shade obscuring all else. A welcome respite from my own mind.
7 a.m: A workday morning: Awake. Awakeawakeawake. Ugh, another day. I should get exercise out of the way while E is still asleep.
7:30 a.m: After briefly browsing my phone, I roll out the yoga mat for practice. Relishing this time to stretch and breathe. To intentionally lower shoulders down from the ears. To physically open my heart space.
Margot. I always look at your beautiful face during yoga. Your pictures on the wall are my focus object for challenging poses. You are my center, my breath.
8:15 a.m: While getting ready -showering, dressing, primping- the mirror is my enemy. This body, a landscape, a well-worn map of the past that I can read from memory. Every familiar pockmark and line. Cystectomy scars -the operation that most likely allowed our unexpected pregnancy- display as raised braille letters, further enlarged by the growing belly which followed closely afterward. A belly that's empty now. The face in the mirror confirms it: You are here; your baby is not.
9:15 a.m: We're prepared to leave. E is up and dressed. I tell him what to do and he does it. Our mornings are quiet and low key. We don't have a fussy baby to feed, change, dress, and console. Elijah doesn't have to entertain his sister in her car seat, while I run inside to grab the book I forgot. Instead, we exit the house and enter the vehicle in an orderly silence. During the short drive, he reads a book. Once we arrive in the driveway of either set of grandparents, he jumps out the van door and runs in their home. I head to work. The ease of it is gutting.
10 a.m: After a weirdly emotional car ride, the library comes into sight. The sudden onset of sadness, much like a shot of espresso, has thoroughly affected my system. Pulling into a parking space, it dawns on me: The special event we're hosting today? It happened during my pregnancy last year, when I was restricted from heavy lifting. No physical limitations this year though. The lump in my throat grows with each table and chair I move to prepare for the program. Daily life is riddled with these grenades. Harsh reminders of the child I no longer carry and the heavier, albeit invisible, burden I now bear.
11:30 a.m: The program ends and unleashes a crowd of families into the main library. We check books out to mothers, grandmothers, dads, children. My storytime regulars -Elliot, Christopher, Carolina- approach the desk to tell me things, ask about books, invite me on their family vacations. The parents tend to appear slightly harassed, in the most polite and loving way, by their busy little people, by the chaos that toddler energy can't help but create. I miss being exhausted by the constant motion, the needs of children that age. I can't help but examine their innocent eyes, chubby cheeks, and the younger sibling usually squirming in the Mama's arms and think, "That should have been Margot and Wren."
2:15 p.m: My library shift is nearly over. Don't get me wrong, I love the distraction of this job. My colleagues are exceptional people. Small talk with the public is the hardest part. Because, working at a rural branch, EVERYONE knows. Underneath each interaction is that understanding. They know my baby died, that's what they see when they look at me, and either they'll address it or they won't. Acknowledge her or not. Even 8 months later, no conversation feels regular or lighthearted. It's a loaded gun aimed straight at my heart.
"So, what's your family doing for fun this summer?"
"Oh. We're going to the beach." And staying in a house with a nursery that we don't get to use.
Bullseye, right in the chest.
3:30 p.m: I've picked E up and we're back to the solitude of home. Typically I can convince him to watch a cooking competition show with me. We ridicule the contestants brutally, laughing and building jabs on top of each other. Sometimes he'll let me lean against him on the couch. My big, brave boy. I love this part of the day.
4:15 p.m: Elijah's retreated to his room and David isn't home yet. A good wife would start thinking about dinner or -better yet- already have a meal plan. I am not a good wife. I'm tired and unmotivated. I'll just nap until David gets home.
6:00 p.m: Either David or I have cobbled together a family dinner. E set the table. I stare down at my plate and the voice inside starts her assault.
You don't deserve this meal. Your body killed your daughter and you want to continue nourishing it? Continue living? You are a murderer. You are less than nothing. How can you shovel food into your mouth like a normal person? Stop pretending you are worth the food in front of you.
Consciously or no, this dialogue continues with every bite. Sometimes the voice wins. Sometimes I do. Thinking of Wren and staring at my two precious boys helps me silence her words. Sometimes I can convince myself that I am worthy. That I am a wonderful mother who loved Margot more than life itself.
9:00 p.m: Elijah is headed to bed. Routine dictates that each family member shares a request for the bedtime prayer. I have to admit, the tradition feels empty. Maintained for the sake of normalcy, not a strong conviction about the power of prayer.
Every night we prayed. We petitioned Margot's mantra: God, keep her healthy and strong. We believed in the miracle of her. And now? Prayer's monolith casts a shadow over our tentative attempts at faith. How can we authentically pour our hearts out, asking and pleading, when the outcome is decided? When answers seem random and unattached to our deepest heart cries, already fixed firmly by the Divine?
We pray for Wren, but it feels like throwing words at the ceiling. Like speaking with an impassive force. Oh God. Don't take this daughter from us too.
9:30 p.m: David and I usually end our days on the couch- talking, crying, watching TV, reading. Just physically occupying the same space. Proximity is key since losing Margot, a relationship need that heightened after experiencing trauma together. Sometimes I sit on his lap, our foreheads resting against one another. This nearness is more necessary than words, the touch affirming.
We're still here. We're still together. We still are.
10:30 p.m: Pajamas are on, anxiety meds taken, teeth brushed and (in David's case) flossed. The left bedside lamp shines on my current book. The right one illuminates D's latest sudoko puzzle. I read and he computes until our eyes droop closed. Then we click lights off and gather our lovies: D hugs Margot's hospital blanket to his neck. I pull Margot teddy bear, made to match her birth weight, right on top of my chest. A late night anchor to earth. Then, the hard part. Waiting for sleep to come. As much as the essence of prayer eludes me, in these twilight moments it becomes second nature.
Please give me a dream about Margot. Please let Elijah be okay in all this. Please protect Wren. Please just let me sleep through the night. Please, please, please.
Compassionate Friends: 24/7 Online Support Groups for loss families
Grief Resource Network: 24/7 Crisis Hotlines and loss resources
To that end, I share this narrative. It's difficult to swallow, even for me. But maybe it will ring true for other loss and trauma survivors, for my fellow grief warriors. Because while each of our stories may be different, the constancy of the pain expressed here is NOT an exaggeration. It's what we live with on the daily. It lurks around the corner each day, even sunshine-y ones, threatening to steal any comfort we've accumulated. That's why I implore you outsiders: Check on your grieving friends; be a safe place where they can process feelings without judgement or unsolicited feedback. It doesn't matter how many days, weeks, months, or years it has been. "Normal" is destroyed for them and they can't go back. No matter how desperately they wish they could.
Without any further expounding or explaining, I present: A Day in the Life of Laura. ((Read: The true events/emotions recorded below happened over the course of months, but have been condensed into a single day for brevity's sake.))
3 a.m: I blearily focus on the clock. Damn. Not this again.
Memories of THAT night flood back. Waking at 3 and not feeling Margot wiggling around like usual. Telling myself if she doesn't move in 5 minutes, I'll wake David. Sitting on our bathroom floor waiting in dread. Not finding her heartbeat with our purchased doppler. The charged atmosphere of our late interstate drive to the hospital, my heart turning to stone inside me.
I look up at the ceiling, telling myself not to relive these painful moments. "It doesn't change anything, Laura. Just close your eyes and go back to sleep." Despite best efforts otherwise, my brain insists on replaying every.single.detail. When sleep finally comes, it is a black shade obscuring all else. A welcome respite from my own mind.
7 a.m: A workday morning: Awake. Awakeawakeawake. Ugh, another day. I should get exercise out of the way while E is still asleep.
7:30 a.m: After briefly browsing my phone, I roll out the yoga mat for practice. Relishing this time to stretch and breathe. To intentionally lower shoulders down from the ears. To physically open my heart space.
Margot. I always look at your beautiful face during yoga. Your pictures on the wall are my focus object for challenging poses. You are my center, my breath.
8:15 a.m: While getting ready -showering, dressing, primping- the mirror is my enemy. This body, a landscape, a well-worn map of the past that I can read from memory. Every familiar pockmark and line. Cystectomy scars -the operation that most likely allowed our unexpected pregnancy- display as raised braille letters, further enlarged by the growing belly which followed closely afterward. A belly that's empty now. The face in the mirror confirms it: You are here; your baby is not.
9:15 a.m: We're prepared to leave. E is up and dressed. I tell him what to do and he does it. Our mornings are quiet and low key. We don't have a fussy baby to feed, change, dress, and console. Elijah doesn't have to entertain his sister in her car seat, while I run inside to grab the book I forgot. Instead, we exit the house and enter the vehicle in an orderly silence. During the short drive, he reads a book. Once we arrive in the driveway of either set of grandparents, he jumps out the van door and runs in their home. I head to work. The ease of it is gutting.
10 a.m: After a weirdly emotional car ride, the library comes into sight. The sudden onset of sadness, much like a shot of espresso, has thoroughly affected my system. Pulling into a parking space, it dawns on me: The special event we're hosting today? It happened during my pregnancy last year, when I was restricted from heavy lifting. No physical limitations this year though. The lump in my throat grows with each table and chair I move to prepare for the program. Daily life is riddled with these grenades. Harsh reminders of the child I no longer carry and the heavier, albeit invisible, burden I now bear.
11:30 a.m: The program ends and unleashes a crowd of families into the main library. We check books out to mothers, grandmothers, dads, children. My storytime regulars -Elliot, Christopher, Carolina- approach the desk to tell me things, ask about books, invite me on their family vacations. The parents tend to appear slightly harassed, in the most polite and loving way, by their busy little people, by the chaos that toddler energy can't help but create. I miss being exhausted by the constant motion, the needs of children that age. I can't help but examine their innocent eyes, chubby cheeks, and the younger sibling usually squirming in the Mama's arms and think, "That should have been Margot and Wren."
2:15 p.m: My library shift is nearly over. Don't get me wrong, I love the distraction of this job. My colleagues are exceptional people. Small talk with the public is the hardest part. Because, working at a rural branch, EVERYONE knows. Underneath each interaction is that understanding. They know my baby died, that's what they see when they look at me, and either they'll address it or they won't. Acknowledge her or not. Even 8 months later, no conversation feels regular or lighthearted. It's a loaded gun aimed straight at my heart.
"So, what's your family doing for fun this summer?"
"Oh. We're going to the beach." And staying in a house with a nursery that we don't get to use.
Bullseye, right in the chest.
3:30 p.m: I've picked E up and we're back to the solitude of home. Typically I can convince him to watch a cooking competition show with me. We ridicule the contestants brutally, laughing and building jabs on top of each other. Sometimes he'll let me lean against him on the couch. My big, brave boy. I love this part of the day.
4:15 p.m: Elijah's retreated to his room and David isn't home yet. A good wife would start thinking about dinner or -better yet- already have a meal plan. I am not a good wife. I'm tired and unmotivated. I'll just nap until David gets home.
6:00 p.m: Either David or I have cobbled together a family dinner. E set the table. I stare down at my plate and the voice inside starts her assault.
You don't deserve this meal. Your body killed your daughter and you want to continue nourishing it? Continue living? You are a murderer. You are less than nothing. How can you shovel food into your mouth like a normal person? Stop pretending you are worth the food in front of you.
Consciously or no, this dialogue continues with every bite. Sometimes the voice wins. Sometimes I do. Thinking of Wren and staring at my two precious boys helps me silence her words. Sometimes I can convince myself that I am worthy. That I am a wonderful mother who loved Margot more than life itself.
9:00 p.m: Elijah is headed to bed. Routine dictates that each family member shares a request for the bedtime prayer. I have to admit, the tradition feels empty. Maintained for the sake of normalcy, not a strong conviction about the power of prayer.
Every night we prayed. We petitioned Margot's mantra: God, keep her healthy and strong. We believed in the miracle of her. And now? Prayer's monolith casts a shadow over our tentative attempts at faith. How can we authentically pour our hearts out, asking and pleading, when the outcome is decided? When answers seem random and unattached to our deepest heart cries, already fixed firmly by the Divine?
We pray for Wren, but it feels like throwing words at the ceiling. Like speaking with an impassive force. Oh God. Don't take this daughter from us too.
9:30 p.m: David and I usually end our days on the couch- talking, crying, watching TV, reading. Just physically occupying the same space. Proximity is key since losing Margot, a relationship need that heightened after experiencing trauma together. Sometimes I sit on his lap, our foreheads resting against one another. This nearness is more necessary than words, the touch affirming.
We're still here. We're still together. We still are.
10:30 p.m: Pajamas are on, anxiety meds taken, teeth brushed and (in David's case) flossed. The left bedside lamp shines on my current book. The right one illuminates D's latest sudoko puzzle. I read and he computes until our eyes droop closed. Then we click lights off and gather our lovies: D hugs Margot's hospital blanket to his neck. I pull Margot teddy bear, made to match her birth weight, right on top of my chest. A late night anchor to earth. Then, the hard part. Waiting for sleep to come. As much as the essence of prayer eludes me, in these twilight moments it becomes second nature.
Please give me a dream about Margot. Please let Elijah be okay in all this. Please protect Wren. Please just let me sleep through the night. Please, please, please.
-Dearest Friend-
If this hits close to home, I see you.
If the internal trash talk sounds familiar, I hear you.
If all the remaining love on earth doesn't seem like enough, I feel you.
Your brain might lie to you, but I won't:
Today isn't forever.
You are NOT alone.
You are worthy to be here.
Hold on, Hold on, Hold on.
Compassionate Friends: 24/7 Online Support Groups for loss families
Grief Resource Network: 24/7 Crisis Hotlines and loss resources
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