It's always hard, this day. Some are years worse than others. This seems to be a tough year, although I can't quite say why.
Fifteen years later, it's no longer the raw grief of recent loss. It's more like the dull ache of a pain that never really goes away. It flares up now and then. Always now. It's hard not to dwell on it, the significance of this day, this week.
Strangers can't tell; outwardly, I go on like it's any other day. I laugh, I smile. I'm cordial and polite. And, even today, if someone asks me how many children I have, I say two. With a pang of guilt, because that's a lie. I am a mother of three children, not two.
But that nice person I just met, who is just making casual conversation, doesn't need to know that. And I don't want to have to explain. I don't want to make them to feel bad for asking, or listen to the uncomfortable stammer of someone who doesn't know what to say, because they've never been through it. Or force someone else to relive their own pain by sharing mine, because they have been through it.
I still have moments of wondering why. I'll never know the answer. All I do know, is that for whatever reason, she was never meant to be mine here on earth. Things would be so different... Charlie might not have come along when he did. Sarah might not have come at all. And I do know I was meant to be their mother. I can't imagine my life without them. And they are who they are, in part because of who I am. Who I was when they came along. And I wouldn't have been the same without the loss of Emma.
The hospital calls what happened a "missed miscarriage". Three weeks later, it would have been called something different. It would have been called what it was to me, which was a stillbirth. She was my child. She lived and grew just enough for me to feel her move one time. I heard her heartbeat, just once. And then she was gone. I went through hell that week, being induced, and delivering in a remote room of the maternity ward, far enough away that I didn't have to hear the joyful chime that rings out each time a new baby is born. Leaving that hospital feeling empty and alone.
Nothing fills the void left by the loss of a child. There is no time limit on grief. It's okay not to be "okay". It's okay to talk about her. It's okay to not talk about her. I sometimes feel guilty when I don't talk about her. Sometimes I still cry when I mention her name. Sometimes, that's why I don't mention her name. Can't mention her name.
Today, I haven't said her name out loud. I probably won't. Yet, I've thought about her every minute, and could not stop my mind from going back to that day. I've thought about the fact that she would have been a freshman in high school this year. I've wondered what she would look like, or what type of personality she might have had. She was not meant for this world, but she was meant for me, for however brief a time.
Emma Grace was my daughter. She was a gift I couldn't keep, but I hold her in my heart.
