The past few days, my husband and I were in Nashville, Tennessee for a Boy Scouts of America conference. My husband works for this organization as a Field Director. The conference was fantastic, but coming home brought something I was not prepared for.
At the conference, there were no Emily memories. Yes, I told a few people about her and there were those who already knew, but in a sea of 4000 people, the death of a child isn’t something that readily comes up. We’ve also taken to simply telling people this child I am carrying is our 6th. Only if the person really begins to dig, do we divulge more information. So, beyond the incredulous looks we got when we told people this was our 6th NOT our 1st, there was very little there to remind me of Emily. We had never been to Nashville with Emily and during the conference there was very little time to even think about life at home because they had us running here and there from sun up to sun down. I carried her pictures with me nearly everywhere I went, but grief did not have its grip on me.
However, as we rounded the corner toward home, I began to feel the memories. At first, they were memories of the hospital stays and surgeries when I would come home late at night to take a bath and grab clothes for the next few days. She was alive and I had no real fears of her dying. I don’t ever remember fearing death during all those weeks. These memories are precious to me, but very hard because I long for those days again. Those days when it was just her daddy and I standing over her day in and day out, smoothing her hair behind her ears, changing the dressing on her central line, loving on her.
As I walked into the house, the two oldest children raced to greet me and amongst all the hellos and goodbyes to my mother who had stayed with them, my grief was allayed. However, as I walked into my bedroom to lay down for some much needed rest, I saw Emily’s sketch, the trunk with her clothes and things in it, and the empty bassinet propped against the wall. These were memories of what was no longer. No baby to nurse to sleep, no little open-mouthed kisses to greet me. Tears melted into sleep.
Today, as I tried to recover from the exhaustion and nausea brought on by the fast food we ate on the trip home, I found myself fighting the barage of memories over and over again. This time they were of her death. It is nearly impossible for me to stop the memories of the night before and the morning of her death. It plays and plays until I break.
But, what I have noticed is that my moments of utter dispair are rather short in comparison to what they once were. A few minutes and I am able to get up and move forward again. I am grateful for this.
I missed my children so much and was so happy to see them, but amid the joyful reunion was a sadness. Another child I miss is not in this home. She did not run to greet me. She did not smile up at me and ask about my trip. She did not wrap her little arms about my leg and jump up and down. She does not live here.
However, some day I will truly come home and no grief will be waiting for me there. What a day that will be!
God's Guitar Girl says
You just never know where you’ll be and how it will hit you. It sounds like many of your memories of Emily are connected with a place where you spend lots of time, which is hard.I’m glad to hear that the pain isn’t lasting as long each time. Your wound may not always be as raw as it was, but it will always be there.Hang in there, and get some rest, girl!
Steven Jenkins says
It is always those ‘unexpected’ moments that get you the worst. You can brace yourself for the birthdays and anniversaries, but even four years later I still get caught off guard at the strangest times and suddenly it all seems like it just happened yesterday! Praying for you as you settle in back home. – Deedee
thebridledtongue says
The commenters above have nailed it. You’ll always be caught off guard, but yes, the pain will be less and less raw, and more and more dull. Those hard memories will blur a bit and the Lord continues to carry you along.Many have gone before, and yet we survive. Goodness, what a club – it’s like we should have matching jackets or something. Silly laughing aside – know that you are prayed for.
Jacque Dixon says
Hi Amy-I don’t come by here too often, but I want you to know that I think of you often. I was just at the Kligmann’s Journal. I don’t really know them either, except that all that happened with Rachael. I joined MOMYS, but only after, and I don’t get to get on there often.I often hesitate to comment, because I feel like I know more about you than you do about me, and I feel like I’m intruding. I just want you to know that we are praying for you, and I am grieved that you and yours are living without your beautiful little girl.May God’s peace give you a place of rest.Blessings,Jacque< HREF="http://jacquedixon.com" REL="nofollow">Walking Therein<>
Ace says
Honey, I just want to hug you! I have my very own little Emma (Emme to us) and she is 11 months old. You make me appreciate her more and more (even when she screams allnight 🙂I lost my Father, GrandFathers (both) and several beloved Pets within a 3 year period. My Father took his life ten years ago and I still cannot go one day without thinking of him, missing him and loving him.I will never, ever get over him. I still cry when I hear songs that remind of him. I still see gifts I want to buy him, things I want to tell him, stories that would make him laugh. I thought it would get easier..it does, you can breathe..you can go on. But I have realized that while the intense grief may wane…the missing, the longing never goes away. It seems directly linked to how much you loved them. You will always miss and love your Emmy. My friends’ lost their Brother over 30 years ago and they still talk about him all the time and he died as an infant. They are imprinted on our hearts, seared onto our souls and this precious love, take heart…it goes on into eternity. You WILL meet again, SHE DOES LIVE and you will see her again.Many Blessings my friend, Ace