The Early Days

I was pretty much a hermit in the early days after Vivienne’s death, and I didn’t start this blog until a few months after losing her. I haven’t told a lot of people what those early days were like. I feel a bit of an obligation for people to understand those days—mostly because in all likelihood, you will know someone who will have a loss (1 in 4 do, an unfortunate statistic). And maybe understanding what those days are like will help you to bring comfort to a friend some day.

The initial hours and days were complete shock. There were big decisions that needed to be made, and we were in no shape to make them, but had no choice. We were asked if we wanted to name our daughter, which was an easy one for us. She is still our daughter, and she deserves a name. We were asked if we wanted an autopsy, and we were asked what we wanted to do with her remains. We were given the names of funeral homes. We were not asked if we wanted pictures of her, which in hindsight was the thing we missed. Fortunately, the nurses took pictures of her without our knowledge, so we have those to remember her. But, we don’t have any pictures of us with her, which I know is a big regret for both of us.

We threw away the clothes we wore that night—another reminder that we didn’t need. As we left the hospital, achingly aware of how empty our arms were without our baby, the nurse commented that it was a sunny day, but felt like it should be a rainy one. We went home and shut the curtains—darkness seemed the only appropriate environment. We spent the next few days in a random rotation of crying, sleeping, and feeling numb to the world.

On Sunday, the flowers started to arrive. Over the days after Vivienne’s death, we received countless cards, flowers, and gifts from friends. We joked that our house looked like a funeral home, but it brought us so much comfort to know that people recognized the depth of our loss. We kept every card we received, and pressed a flower from every arrangement to put with Vivienne’s things.

Sunday night, I woke up around 1 am completely overwhelmed by the loss. I was crying so hard that I could not breath, and I wasn’t sure how I would ever survive this. I got up and wrote the words I would say at Vivienne’s memorial service. Then I sat on the couch, rocking back and forth, and crying like a mental patient until my husband came to get me.

That week, we met with the funeral director, signed paperwork to have our daughter cremated, and picked out a box for her remains. We bought a hope chest (ironic) to put all of Vivienne’s things in. It wasn’t an option to give them away, and we could never use them for another baby—those are her things, and they stay with her.

My husband and I made an agreement, as we each worried about the other one falling into a pit they couldn’t climb out of. Our agreement was that we get up every day and take a shower. That was it. Some days, that was harder to do than it sounds.

Gordon and I were inseparable during those weeks. We did everything together, and couldn’t be alone. Our first trip out to the grocery store, we split up to get it done faster. I showed up at the cash register with cupcakes in my hand. He gave me a look, and I said “I saw a pregnant woman, so I grabbed cupcakes.” That was an acceptable answer.

We tried to leave the house once a day, coming up with random errands to run to force ourselves out into fresh air. But do you know what’s everywhere during the day on weekdays? Babies. Lots of them. It seemed like we couldn’t go anywhere without seeing someone with a baby, and me feeling like I had a flashing sign over my head that said “my baby died.” Part of me wanted to go up and tell these new Moms to appreciate what they had, but I knew enough to know that this would only make me look crazier.

There are all sorts of the things you never consider in the aftermath of losing a child. Did you know that your milk still comes in? My body delivered a baby, it didn’t know she died. So about a week after Vivienne died, I got a very painful physical reminder that I had no child to parent. That lasted for about a week. Then there are the kicks. Technically, they are spasms in the uterus as it shrinks back to normal size. But what they felt like were Vivienne’s kicks. I thought I was officially losing it that I could still feel her move and kick inside of me.

The mail, email distribution lists, and the nurses at the doctor’s office also don’t know she died. So, the fliers for cord donation, maternity wear, and formula keep coming. To this day, we still get flyers offering coupons on our child’s first photos. I had to physically remove myself from every email distribution list I could (and there’s no box to check for “I don’t want to receive your emails because my baby died.”), and I still get emails from maternity stores. There were trips to the doctor’s office where the nurses would ask “how’s the baby?” because they didn’t read my file in advance. It seemed like the hits just kept on coming one after another.

Two weeks after Vivienne died, we had her memorial service. It was just family at our home, and I think it was perfect. We played music for her, read poems or words we wanted to say, and cried with our family. It gave us some peace to know we had honored our daughter. It’s one of the only “proud parent” moments that we get.

I went back to work 2 weeks after Vivienne died. In hindsight, I can say without hesitation that it was way too soon. At the time, I needed something to do—something to occupy my time and my thoughts. I cried at the office A LOT during those first couple of weeks. I still do sometimes, but I try harder to hide it now than I did before.

I can still remember how raw the pain was in those first few weeks. I know that I have healed a lot over the past 6 months, but I also know that I still have a lot of healing to do. There are days when that time feels so far in the past. And then there are days like today, when I wake up missing her so deeply and profoundly that I don’t know if the tears will stop.  I guess that’s how grief goes—some days, you feel like you’re making real progress. And other days, you feel right back in the midst of it.