A Person Dies But Love Doesn't

In 3 months, it will be 6 years since I last held Adalyn. I simply can’t wrap my head around that length of time. To the outside world that seems like a long time, life has moved on and so should I. To the outside world I have so much to be thankful for since the arrival of Lilly. Lilly is truly a gift from God. She is the air that fills my lungs, the rhythm of my heartbeat, and my reason for living. She is my hope for the future and living proof of my faith, but she does not replace Adalyn. It is not Lilly’s job to shoulder the weight of my life before her. Lilly’s place is not in the shadows of her sister or the tragedy that stole Adalyn from my arms. It is not Lilly’s job to “fix” me. Rather, it’s my job to tell Lilly all about her sister. It’s my job to show her what unconditional love looks like and to show her that not even death ends that kind of love. As their mother, it’s my job to show Lilly that the kind of love a mother has for her children comes at a very high cost but that the cost is worth it all.

I worried when Lilly arrived that she would only know the sad version of the mother that I once was when I had Adalyn. I worried about all the tears that she would see because of the enormous hole in my heart. I wondered if it was better to hide that side of myself from her as a way of protecting her from knowing the hurt, I carry every day. I long for the mama I was when I had Adalyn. I long for that version of myself not only as a mother but also as a partner, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. I long for the innocence that came with not knowing loss so intimately. I ache to have a good day that doesn’t come with a side of wondering about the missing piece of my heart.  

People often say, “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through”. There is some truth to that statement. I don’t think you can truly understand the pain of this life unless you have lived it. However, I think you can imagine, to a certain extent, what it would feel like to have your entire life destroyed on front of you. I think you can imagine what it would be like to have to say goodbye to your innocent child, to tuck them in for the last time in a casket instead of their bed. I think you can imagine the heart wrenching; soul stealing pain that would come with being handed your child’s cold and lifeless body to hold and rock before saying your final earthly goodbye. I think you can imagine the pit in your stomach that would come with being handed an urn and knowing that what’s inside is all that is left of your child’s physical presence here on Earth. I think you can imagine what it would be like to lay in bed at night and have the last thing you see before you fall asleep be that same urn as it sits on your bedside table. I think you can imagine all these things, but the reality is no one would ever want to. No one would ever want to imagine the kind of pain and mental anguish that comes with losing your child. Perhaps you cannot truly understand what it is like to live with a beating broken heart, but you can imagine what I’ve lived through, you just don’t ever want to.

Having Lilly has healed my heart in ways that I could never have imagined possible. She brings laughter back into our home and lights up even the darkest parts of my soul. She forces me to be a better person and to seek the changes that this world desperately needs so that I can hopefully leave this world a better place for her. She also opens my daily life up to so many triggers. I hate the question, “is she your first?”. It’s so innocent in nature and yet I can feel the pit in my stomach growing as the conversation drifts towards other children. I have never nor will I ever deny Adalyn's existence, not even for the sake of making the conversation easier. I dread the question, “do you want more children?”. The simple answer is no, I don’t want any more children, I just want my firstborn daughter back. I read that when your family is complete you just know it. It’s a feeling that comes from your mama heart. I wonder if a bereaved mother ever gets that feeling? I don’t feel complete at all but is that because I was meant to have another child or because I have a child missing from my arms? I look at Lilly and wish that she had a living sibling to grow up with. I wish that I was leaving behind someone for her when I am no longer here, but I also know just what a miracle she is. My age will ultimately be the determining factor for if my family is complete and not the feeling of being complete. Yet another side effect of the night my family was destroyed.

Lilly deserves to have all the experiences a child can dream of. She deserves to experience all that life has to offer and all the things that I got to experience with Adalyn. Those experiences come with lurking triggers. I loved taking Adalyn to Disney. Watching the wonder and amazement in her eyes was truly magical as a mother. I felt like a kid myself when I took her to experience the magic of the Disney parks. Taking Lilly to experience the magic was an entirely different experience. Memories of Disney days gone by were waiting for me all around the park. I found myself in line at guest services to get a Disability Pass because the anxiety of being back in the park was almost more than I could handle. I walked down Main Street not feeling at all like a kid myself but rather feeling the agonizing pain that was shooting through my right leg, the leg that was severely broken the night we were run over. Each painful step in the park served as yet another reminder of what was missing. I couldn’t just get lost in excitement and wonder that Lilly was experiencing because I was lost in trying to control my emotions and hide my grief. My sweet Lilly was sitting in her stroller at the happiest place on earth holding Adalyn Bunny instead of holding Adalyn’s hand. Disney is just one of the many places that come with lurking triggers and reminders that I am not mama I once was.

Then there’s the other side of grief, stolen experiences. A theme park that I never got to experience with Adalyn. A place with no lurking memories or obvious triggers. Once again, I find myself only partially present for the excitement of the day. As Lilly squealed with excitement over the Sesame Street Carousel at Sea World, I wondered how Adalyn would have reacted. I thought about all the mornings that Adalyn and I would lay in bed and watch Sesame Street before her morning nap. I thought about her sweet, infectious belly laugh when my mom brought over a Tickle Me Elmo and how she made that Elmo laugh so many times he would get stuck. I thought about Adalyn sleeping with a little stuffed Elmo, that Elmo now sits in my room close to her urn. Grief once again stealing my ability to just be present in the joy that Lilly was experiencing.

No one talks about what “moving forward” looks like or what it will feel like to manage the enormity of grief that never goes away. People offer their well-meaning advice like, “take Lilly back to Disney and make new memories there with her” or “take Lilly someplace that you didn’t go with Adalyn so that you can make new memories without worrying about any triggers”, but what they don’t understand is that I am living in this world without part of myself. Adalyn is part of who I am. Her memory is not something that I can avoid, nor do I want to, by simply making new memories. Her memory is as much a part of me as the blood flowing through my veins. No amount of time that passes will erase my love for her and that means learning to live with grief rather than trying to replace it with new memories. It means accepting grief as part of who I am and acknowledging its presence in everything that I do. It means accepting that some days will be easier than others and when the easy days happen allowing myself to enjoy the moments, to smile at the memories, and to go out and make new memories. It also means accepting that there will still be days when grief will be overwhelming, when sorrow will make my body ache, and longing will make it hard to breathe. It means acknowledging that living with grief is exhausting, even on the easier days, and that functioning with a beating broken heart is draining. It’s not the kind of exhaustion that can be fixed by a good night’s rest or the kind that gets better by just “taking it easy”. It’s the kind of exhaustion that builds up from deep inside until it renders you physically unable to function. There’s no escape from that kind of tired. On those days, I am left to simply pull the covers up, hold Adalyn Bunny close to my heart, and find a show to binge watch. Those days feel like the beginning of grief all over again with a gnawing pit in my stomach and a feeling of being completely overwhelmed. My head swirls with unanswered questions and I feel like I am being consumed by anxiety as I wonder how I will survive the rest of my life without Adalyn. Time has lessened how often these days occur, but it has not removed them from my life. I don’t suspect that anything, other than my own death, will ever completely take them away and so I am learning how to live with them.

The biggest lie I’ve ever been told is that “time heals all wounds”. Time does not heal a mother’s grieving heart. There will never come a day where I don’t count my children and have my heart drop with the reality that one of them isn’t here with me and never will be. There will never be a day where the deep, empty hole Adalyn left is any less deep or empty. There isn’t enough time, enough healing, enough distraction or prayer that will make this pain go away or help me to “get over it”. I don’t want to “get over it”. I don’t want to get over Adalyn. I don’t want to forget my profound, unconditional love for her. The one thing that I am certain of is that a death like Adalyn’s, after a love like ours, is a permanent thing. We grieve hard because we love hard. We continue to grieve because we continue to love. A person dies but love doesn’t.