9 Months
I carried Maisie for exactly nine months, and today marks the nine months post her birth and death.
Why does this day feel so important?
She has been gone for as long as she had been alive in me.
As much as I have adjusted to being pregnant for nine months, I have learned, reluctantly, to adjust to living without her for nine months.
So what does living without her look like today?
While I returned to some familiar routines with work, travel and social engagements, I am painfully aware of her absence. The grief waves come and go. They are more predictable now and I’ve become comfortable with tears rolling down my cheeks in any setting.
And her loss remains heart-wrenching. The missing. The longing. I don’t think that ever goes away.
Time doesn’t heal.
However, what time does allow for is the opportunity to rebuild my inner world while making sense of this new outer reality.
Every night for the first few months after Maisie died, I dreamt of her death. Needless to say, I loathed the nights. But what I learned, and what commonly happens after traumatic events, is that her death was so far outside my expectations or known experiences that my brain did not register the event. Each night, my subconscious was relentlessly trying to make sense of my new outer reality by revisiting the fact that Maisie had left this earth.
While those dreams have now subsided, I have strengthened my connection to the baby loss community. Hearing the stories of other parents going through loss, helps me normalize my experience - the irrational thoughts, doubts, and fears. This community, built upon the most vulnerable and traumatic experience as a parent, is filled with the most infinite love and understanding. I have found refuge with these incredible mamas who have helped each other rebuild after loss.
A part of rebuilding my inner world also involves constantly being with what is. And that’s hard. It’s much easier to dissociate - and sometimes that is necessary and okay - but it’s not living in the present moment. And the present moment is where Maisie’s spirit lives. I light her candle in the mornings. My husband and I will say her name when we hear wind chimes or see 2:21 on the clock. I frequently tend to her altar in our home with flowers, painted rocks, and notes from friends and family. This is my way of loving her, connecting with her, parenting her.
So the more that I think about it, these past nine months isn’t about living without her, but rather living with what is. I’m living with grief and love, with sorrow and hope.
I am living.