I’ve been struggling the last few days, more than a few days if I’m being honest with myself. I have made such a concerted effort every day since Claire died to try and focus on the positive, to remember the good moments more than the bad and to convey to the world a “Strong Sydney.”
I was doing pretty well… until I wasn’t. I spent the entire weekend locked in the vivid recall of every terrible moment I experienced losing Claire. The fear of being told I had to rush to the hospital after my cervical examination. The trauma of my water breaking and the gut-renching moment when we were told there was only a 5% chance that she would survive. My husband talking to Claire through my belly, asking her to be strong and to fight. The final memory is the worst: watching her die. I told my daughter it was okay to go to heaven. I wanted her to know it was okay to leave us, that she was leaving to go to a better place where she would be taken care of. This last moment haunts me. Not because of what I said, but because it’s something a parent should never have to tell their child. We are supposed to have the chance to fight for them to live, not comfort them while they die.
It’s that final moment that I replay in my head over and over and over again. It’s stuck on repeat and I’ve been having a very difficult time fixing the track. I conceived her and delivered her. I held her in my arms as she her tiny lungs took in as many breaths as they could. I held her while her heartbeat and I was still holding her when it stopped for the last time.
I watched my daughter die. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the horror of that. If a mother was told that their child was going to die and their options were to be there with them or to be somewhere else, all mothers would wish to be there with their child. I am no different. It’s a blessing that my husband and I were the ones who were with her in her first and final moments, but it was heartbreaking to watch her die and even more heartbreaking to live with.
I want to be positive, I want to move forward and I want to focus on all of Claire’s loveliness and perfection. I want to feel better and to be less emotional. I want to stop feeling like a cannon has shot a hole straight through my heart.
I know that these moments of extreme emotion will pass and that I will experience the crests and valleys of grief for the rest of my life. I try so hard to maintain a positive attitude on this blog, but I know it’s important to be honest and upfront about the fact that I do suffer. My Grandfather’s likes to say, “It’s not what happens but what you do about it that matters.” Today, I am taking his advice and allowing myself to write out my feelings, to bury myself in the pain a little, and hope that one day the pain will ease up enough for me to breath a little happiness again.
