I’ve accepted that she’s gone. I’m certainly not walking around in denial that my daughter isn’t really dead. Although, I do have to admit there are still moments where it all feels like a bad dream, and I wonder whether I was ever really pregnant. But most days, I am fully aware that she is gone and never coming back.
What I need to accept is that things are different. It will probably always be difficult for me to be around pregnant women, to see newborn babies, and to see any little girls who would be about Vivienne’s age. I need to accept that there is a bitterness that comes with losing a child—the envy of other’s happy ever after—that may never fully go away. I need to stop making myself feel bad for not being able to bask in the glow of other people’s happy baby times. I don’t deny them their happiness, but I also don’t have to torture myself with it. It feels selfish, which I guess it is. Accepting that survival tactics are OK, even if they are inherently selfish, is actually harder than it sounds.
I’m learning to accept that missing her is part of loving her. Those days where I miss her so much that I don’t know how to move forward shows the depth of my love for her. Attempting to shut that down or turn it off would be equivalent to stopping my heart. I miss her every second of every day because I love her every second of every day. And it will be that way for the rest of my life.
The acceptance that I’m working on most of all is that, for better or for worse, this is my life. This is the hand I was dealt, and I need to live with that. Accepting that my family will never be whole, that I will never see my daughter grow up, and that I will be a loss Mommy for the rest of my life is harder than I can describe. This acceptance is going to take some time, and I guess I should accept that I might never fully get there.
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