The Longing

Through the course of writing this blog, I’ve tried to put this unimaginable loss into words. Sometimes, those words come easy—I feel them so strongly, that they practically write themselves. Other times, I really struggle. There is so much about the loss of a child that there are no words for—no words that really capture the pain, the confusion, and the complete despair of this loss. There are many emotions that have no words, and even when there are words to describe them, they just don’t feel strong enough.

It’s easier for me to explain how it feels in the really bad moments. When something triggers, and I am consumed with losing Vivienne. I cry harder than I ever thought I could. I feel like I can’t breathe. I can’t imagine how I will live with this for the rest of my life. I cannot think of anything other than how much I want to hold her and see her face. It is the lowest point I can ever imagine feeling. It’s easy to describe the feeling at the bottom of the pit, but the everyday feeling that I carry around with me is so much harder to explain.

I thought about that fact last weekend. My husband was out of town for the weekend, and I really missed him (it’s the longest we’ve been apart since Vivienne died). I felt a little lost without him and wasn’t really sure what to do with myself. But, I knew he’d be back in a couple of days, so the missing him was temporary and knowing that made it manageable. If I know how long I’m in it for, then I can count down towards the end.

I really miss Vivienne too. I feel lost without her, and I’m not really sure what to do with myself. The difference is that there is no countdown. This isn’t temporary. I’m in this for the rest of my life. There is no thought that if I can just make it through the next couple of days, then I’ll be in the clear. I miss her, and there is no end in sight.

The closest I can come to describing how this feels is longing. It’s more than just missing someone. It is missing her, knowing she’s gone, and accepting that I won’t get to see her or hold her again in my lifetime. It’s more than missing her—I long to hold her, hear her cry, and watch her grow. It is being told that you can’t have the one thing you want most and knowing that it’s what you’ll want most for the rest of your life. There is an ache that comes with missing her that I’ll never be able to explain.

Here is as close as I can get. I am always on the verge of tears. Even if I’m laughing, it wouldn’t take much to turn that to tears. I feel a constant ache—not always a full-fledged pain, but an ache that I feel deep inside of me all of the time. I feel it in physical ways—my shoulders hurt from carrying the load, or my body just feels achy like a flu is coming on. Other times, it’s just a pervasive ache that I can’t isolate, but it’s always there. My heart literally hurts. That’s not just a description—I can actually feel my broken heart, and it’s a real physical pain that I have all of the time. I never feel as though I can take a full and deep breath. Even when I try, it still feels short and like it’s stopped short of a full breath. Nothing I do makes life feel complete. I always feel like something is missing. You know that feeling when you think you should be doing something else? That’s a constant feeling for me.

I spent some time thinking these were symptoms of my early grief, and they would fade with time. It’s now coming up on 8 months since Vivienne died, and these feelings haven’t changed. They’ve softened a bit, but they are still always there. I am accepting that I will feel this longing, ache, and hurt for the rest of my life. In a way, it’s how I carry Vivienne with me. They also represent the scar from this deep hurt, a scar that people don’t see. To so many, the wound of losing her looks to be healing with time, but I carry that scar, and these feelings, with me always.