Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Forever Waiting for My Little Girl

Waiting.  Waiting for her crib to be used.  Waiting for her clothes to be worn.  Waiting.  Waiting for her to come home.  Sometimes it feels like I am forever waiting for my little girl, who will never come.

One of the challenging parts about losing a child during pregnancy is that I, at times, still anticipate that she will be coming home, even though I know she never will.  Right after I delivered Nora and I came home empty handed without a baby, I would still walk by her room at night and think to myself, "Oh, I can't wait until Nora sees her room."  It was strange.  I knew this would never happen, but my whole experience of her, during my pregnancy, was that of just waiting to meet her, waiting to experience her.  Even though she was no longer in my belly, a part of me still thought she would come home.

This slowly faded, but at times I still think about Nora as if she is yet to be born.  Like yesterday when I was walking out to get the mail from the mailbox at the end of our concrete driveway after work.  As I was walking I thought to myself, "It's going to be so fun for Nora and I to someday write with sidewalk chalk on our driveway in the Spring when she gets older."  And then if felt like I got punched in the gut and I became a little nauseous, for in the same split second that I had this happy thought, I realized it would never come to be.  I continued to get the mail and walk into the house where my now broken dreams lived.

It's also frustrating because it seems that these flash forwards of the future that will never be happen at the strangest times, times when I am not thinking about her at all and am actually enjoying myself and not focused on my grief.  Maybe it's that in these moments, I have forgotten about my present pain and live in a place of imaginary and unrealistic hope.

For instance, I was out at a fancy restaurant for my friends 30th birthday when I ordered espresso as an after dinner drink.  I saw the cute miniature cup that my coffee came in that looked like a child's tea cup.  In that moment I had a vision of Nora, about four years old, sitting at a little play table in her room having a tea party with George our dog, a little shih tzu.  I smiled to myself and stayed in this imaginary future, where I peak in on Nora sipping her pretend tea and talking to George who she has forced to play tea party with her and has dressed him in a silly hat and made him sit on her little chair across from her while she jabbers away.  In this vision, I see myself smiling in on Nora and George as I silently watch from a distance and see my handsome little dog giving me a look of "please help me" along with, "I will do anything for this cute little girl."

At the dinner table, in my real life, I stayed in this dream of the future that will never be for a moment more, before I returned to the party at hand.  Instead of feeling as if I was going to vomit, this time I was slowly brought back to reality and only felt as if my heart had been stepped on.  I guess that's a little better?     

To me it is strange that I have these comforting thoughts of the future about my deceased daughter.  It's as if I am still waiting with anticipation for her to come home and grow up into the little girl I was excited to meet and guide through life. I wonder if this confusing phenomenon ever goes away?  I wonder if I really ever want it too?  I guess a part of me will be forever waiting for my little girl. 

5 comments:

  1. I am always waiting for Ro in my dreams. I think a part of us will always be waiting for them.

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  2. In your waiting and yearning you may find your deepest enduring connection with Nora. It is in my waiting and my grief...where I feel closest to Mike. And yes, I still wait for Mike... It's different, of course, but... I wait for him to return from the hospital, to finally get to play with Baxter, to get to perform on stage with me one more time. Our uber rational brain cannot process death. I feel like it just leaves us bobbing up and down in a murky limbo, waiting for some ground to appear beneath our feet.

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    1. Hi Danna,

      I don't know if I ever responded to you, but thank you for your kind words in response to this post. You describe it so well, the enduring connection. I would defiantly call it that. You put it so well in your words about Mike. Again Danna, thank you for helping me during my time of grief. I am sorry I was not there more for yours with Mike. I am sorry for your loss of such an important person in your life. My heartaches for Baxter too, but I am sure you will be able to teach Bax a lot about Mike so Bax will always carry him with him. I hope I haven't said too much.


      Much Love,

      Lindsey

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  3. I am still waiting. Last Christmas I wanted my daughter with me so badly. Even though she was stillborn in 1982 and I have lost so many years with her, I still expected her to walk in the kitchen and help me prepare the Christmas dinner talking "girl talk" together. I feel your hurt. Even though I have been dearly blessed to have to rainbow sons, the absence is always there for my daughter and her stillborn brother (1975).

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    1. Thank you Gale for these words of wisdom. In some way it brings me comfort knowing that even thirty years from now I will still have a place of love in my heart dedicated to my little girl.

      Peace,

      Lindsey

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