I wrote this for the Brief Encounters newsletter in 2012, which was 10 years after Nora died. On the occasion of her 23rd birthday, I feel called to share it here.
~Raina, Nora’s Mom
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” –Heraclitus
I remember being newly bereaved. I remember the terror and panic in the delivery room when everything went wrong.
After the trauma of sudden, unexpected loss, I went home, not with a baby and the certainty of middle of the night feedings, but to an empty nursery and an uncertain future.
I was able to sleep, but every morning when I woke up, it was to the same nightmare. Nothing had changed. My baby was still dead.
It was clear that my life was not going to be the same. At times, I’m not sure I remember my life before Nora was born and died. I mean, I do literally remember it, but the intensity of the memories and their importance in my consciousness is just not the same as they once were.
I had to learn to live again. Starting slowly—first with just eating breakfast, then being able to be alone in the house, and then going out into the world. The world seemed to move so fast. Engaging with people about ordinary things was suddenly so tiring. Talking to cashiers, going to a movie, buying toilet paper—all of these things were now strange.
What wasn’t strange was going to support group, seeing a counselor, and talking with other parents who had lost their babies—all of which helped me more than I can say during the first year and beyond. I was not alone. Yes, I was alone on my grief journey—it’s true that no one else can walk your path for you—but I was not alone in this experience.
Then I had another baby. And that helped, too. My empty arms were thankfully, wonderfully, not empty anymore.
Was I healed because I now had a living child to parent?
No. Not yet.
When my son was a baby, I went to a new moms’ group once, something I really did want to do—I wanted to feel like a “normal” Mom—but I never went back. I felt like I didn’t fit in. At the time, my worries felt so very different than the other moms’ worries—at least the ones they talked about. Anxieties about sleep or teething…I just couldn’t relate.
The years passed. And, as they did, my soul and spirit were healing.
Today, I eat, sleep, laugh a lot, cry sometimes, jump up and down in excitement if the moment calls for it, get embarrassed, feel sadness, and, sometimes, I am even bold. I feel the fullness of life, both good and bad. While I don’t shy away from my grief, I am no longer defined by it.
Nora would have been 10 years old this past summer. But, instead, she will always be my baby, my first baby. I won’t ever have the chance to get to know the person she would have become in the same way that I am seeing my son grow up and become his own person. These days, that is what gives me pause, and cause for sadness. Would we share the same taste in movies or books? Would we agree about politics or social issues? What choices would she make in her life about education, career, marriage and family? The person she would have become is gone, forever a mystery.
Life does go on. And, as time has passed, I feel that I have experienced what “they” say is part of a “normal” grieving process—when your loss is integrated into your life and you come to a sense of peace about it.
Not closure.
Not forgetting.
I believe there’s a place in your soul that is reserved for your child. That spot where your memories of your baby are. A warm, steady, secure feeling: unconditional love. My life has gone on, and my baby is part of it, carried safely in my heart.
I’ve heard the early stages of grief compared to a pebble in your shoe. With every step, you are reminded of its presence. It’s painful—sometimes intensely; at other times, it’s merely irritating.
I’ve now come to think of my grief as a pebble you keep in your pocket, an object so special you don’t want to lose it, like a treasure you find on the beach when you are a child. So you reach into your pocket from time to time, just to make sure it’s still there, to touch its smooth, rounded edges.
And it is still there.
And you are comforted by it.
noramadelyn.org 