Memories

When you lose a loved one, you generally have a lot of memories to help you through the grief. I can remember losing my Dad. I was so sad that he was gone, but I could still hear his voice, see his face, and sometimes even say things just like he would. I have countless memories of my Dad that help me feel close to him, remember him, and carry him with me.

I don’t have the same for Vivienne. The memories I have are few, and many of them play more like post-traumatic flashbacks rather than warm touching memories. I wish more than I could say that I had a sweet beautiful memory of the first time I held my daughter. Instead, I have a flashback of holding her tiny body, not sure if she was still breathing or not, crying harder than I’ve ever cried in my life.

I’m guessing that anyone who has been through a traumatic experience knows the flashbacks I’m describing. My memories of Vivienne’s birth and the short time we had with her play like an old black and white movie in my head. Not a continuous movie, but one that stops and starts and plays in clips. The sound is like an echo. There’s a hollow and terrifying feeling to every single one of them.

There are some memories that are more vivid than others. Standing in the bathroom at the hospital while my water broke—even I can see the terror on my face. Answering the doctor when she asked if I understood what was happening. Looking into my husband’s face and counting “1-2-3” over and over again as he kept me from hyperventilating from panic. After her birth, the shock set in, and the memories fade.

I have no recollection of calling my Mother to tell her the news. I know that I did, but I have no idea when I called, what I said, or what she said. I don’t remember the doctor who delivered my daughter, and I can’t remember what the nurse who cared for me all night looks like. I don’t remember how long I got to hold my daughter, although it doesn’t really matter since no amount of time would have been enough.

My memories of Vivienne’s short time with us are a blur. I do remember trying to take mental pictures of every part of her, so I wouldn’t forget her face, her hands, her toes. I give thanks every day that we have pictures of her, because my memory is a fog from that night, and those mental pictures I tried so hard to snap have fallen under the haze of shock and complete despair.

I do try to focus on the memories I have of Vivienne, which are few. I remember her Dad reading her Curious George stories. I remember how shy she was at the 20 week ultrasound, causing it to last hours before she finally showed the doctor her face. She burrowed deep back around my spine, and all of the poking and prodding made her burrow deeper, making that picture of her face a difficult one to get. I remember how cookies or bad music could really get her moving. I remember how she was born with her tongue sticking out.

As far as happy memories go, those are pretty much all I have. It adds an extra layer of sadness to miss someone you love so deeply and not have memories to carry you through. And to know that most of those memories are clouded in trauma, not happiness, makes the burden even heavier to carry.