If you could see grief it would look like uncontrollable crashing waves that you would never want to find yourself in. The kind of waves that you have to fight like mad to get out of and hope you live.
The hole in my heart is an endless hallow pit. That is how I describe the way it’s been since that December day when I held your hand in mind and kissed your beautiful face one final time.
I’ve been thinking about this day for so long. May 6, 2019. Two years, three month and six days. I’ve wondered what it would be like when your sweet brother Sage would wake up and be the same exact age you were when we said our goodbyes. It’s now here.
I stared a little longer this morning, watching his little face, thought of you, and then thought about how truly thankful I am to have him. He is a part of you. He is as kind, gentle, loving and so many other things that you also were. You both remind me of your daddy.
As time moves forward so does everything else around me – whether I like it or not.
I roll through each and every day with loss in my heart and you on my mind. I frequently catch myself asking, how did I get this far without you? How did I go from believing I’d never be a mother, to being the most incredibly proud mom, to a bereaved mom?
The love I have for you and your brother will never change, but I wish so badly that I could go back to juggling both of your schedules, driving every which way for appointments, cooking the two of you your very different dinners, getting soaked by you both during bath time and squeezing you so tight before bedtime you’d squeal. I would do anything to have you back.
Everything after today is uncharted water. What do almost five years olds do? What would you be doing if you were here? Would you still let me pick out your clothes and do your hair? Would you still crawl onto my lap and have me push you around? I wish I knew, Livy. There is nothing I wish for more.
Big and little things can hold so much meaning to a grieving mom. Things that no one would understand unless they have been here. Happy moments can become sad moments in a blink of an eye. Like when Sage brought home his school pictures a couple months back. They were adorable, of course, but all I could think about was that the last school photo you brought home was also from preschool year. You never got a chance to experience Kindergarten and as your mom, neither did I.
Before I became a bereaved parent I had known only one person who had experienced this kind of loss. Now that I am in this club (the one I never imagined joining), I seem to know many. And not because I attend support group meetings or anything like that, but because now I realize it happens to more people then I ever stopped to think about before I lost you. The struggle is real and all we can do is be there for each other.
Livy Lou, thank you for all the signs you send me. I love when I know you’re here. Hold my hand when I need it and help me be the best mom I would have been for you.
2 thoughts on “Moments of You”
Haven’t seen you in some time, but wanting you to know that I am thinking of you.
What are the chances that I see you on this day? I can’t believe it’s already been just over two and a half years. Still recent, but doesn’t feel even as though this amount of time has passed. Every time I sing Itsy Bitsy Spider with my son or watch him play with Livy and Sage’s old toys, I am reminded of her. Thank you for sharing. -Alicia
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