The sun rose at 4:18 am on Monday May 8, 2017. I awoke several hours later, though I’m not certain of the exact time. I was in labor, excited to meet my baby girl, oblivious to the fact that her heart had already stopped. And although Corva was born at 3:24 PM it was the darkest moment of my life. Ever. On that spring day, in the drizzly mid-afternoon, I was submerged into my own winter solstice. The sun set three hours and seventeen minutes after delivery, the world’s darkness emulating my own.
Sun standing still. The winter solstice occurs today, December 21 at 11:27 AM. It is the shortest day of the year where I live, which makes it the darkest–only 8 hours and 47 minutes of daylight. This morning the sun rose at 7:09 AM and tonight it will set at 3:57 PM. But tomorrow the daylight extends by six seconds. And the next day by eleven seconds. And the next day by sixteen seconds. Bit by bit, the days lengthen, the sun burns later into the evening hours.
I have been living in darkness for 32 weeks now. In the very beginning, those darkest of days, I couldn’t even imagine light. I couldn’t fathom how I would survive such pain. But, gradually, light re-enters my life. It isn’t very much light– a candle as opposed to floodlights–and yet I am beginning to feel a little bit of hope. Some days.
And in 20 weeks, on Tuesday, May 8, 2018 there will be 14 hours and 35 minutes of daylight, reaching toward the summer solstice.
I still believe in summer days.
The seasons always change
And life will find a way.
Tonight, at the dinner table, my husband, told me that Holly had her baby (2nd boy). I couldn’t even respond. I didn’t ask what his name is or how much he weighs. I didn’t ask anything. And it’s not because I wish her baby would die. It’s not that. It’s that I am so incredibly sad that my baby is missing from me.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, we took Astoria to Magic Kingdom. In the middle of Adventureland, a woman was screaming her child’s name, stretching her neck in an unnatural way, her eyes were frantic, her voice was panicky. I almost started crying.
One day I was attempting to explain the story–Christmas version–of Jesus to Astoria Unfortunately, I couldn’t get past the name Jesus as she kept chanting “Jesus Beezus, Beezus, Jesus.” (We’ve been reading quite a bit of Ramona lately).
At gymnastics practice, a girl slammed her fingers in the door leading from the parent observation room into the gym. The scream silenced the buzz of the observation room. I had a difficult time holding my tears back.
Astoria is recovering from pink eye. Last night I went to the pharmacy to pick up her prescription. The pharmacist asked if she was the only child in the house. Yes. Then he went on to explain that when there are babies in the home, infected with pink eye from school-aged siblings, that’s the bigger concern. Well, at least Corva can’t get pinkeye, I thought to myself wryly.
A few weeks ago, my husband had beers with Holly’s husband. The next morning he remarked “Holly says she misses you.”
And I thought: me too. I miss me too.
In the weeks leading up to the winter holiday season, I saw social media posts and blog posts on “surviving grief during the holidays.” Other “loss moms” hosted “live chats”. But I had no idea how the holidays would hit me. After all, I have minimal memories with Corva. Perhaps that is what makes baby-loss such a different type of loss. One year ago, I was 18 weeks pregnant. I didn’t yet know if we would have a baby boy or another girl (although Astoria desperately wanted a sister and vowed that a brother would go to the dungeon!) While pregnant, I shopped, wrapped, and assembled an ice castle! I dreamt of what the holiday season would be for our family one year later. I certainly never imagined that I would be grieving the death of my precious baby.
Honestly, I was rooting for skipping Christmas this year. It’s just too painful to think about what “should have been”. But Astoria is at such an age where Christmas is so magical and she is so excited. I don’t believe I have ever put my tree up this early in the season.
Christmas looks a bit different for me this year. I spent a good amount of time attempting to create a holiday photo card on Shutterfly the other day. But feeling neither merry nor happy, I couldn’t come up with a good phrase for the card. I was going to say something about peace, but I’m not feeling very peaceful either. So then I just said, fuck it.
But we have a tree. And plans to bake cookies for Santa. My daughter wears a Santa hat and skips around the house singing “Jingle Bells.” So this is Christmas 2017.
How have holidays changed for you in your post-grief life?