As you can tell from this page, I am a mom. I am a mom of living children, 3 beautiful healthy living children. I am also a mom of one perfect beautiful little baby girl who left me far too soon. If you ask me, I will tell you that I have 4 children, 1 boy and 3 girls. If I'm out with three, most people will sort of understand, but occasionally someone will ask where the other child is. She's waiting for us in Heaven. Or, if I'm in a mood, I'll tell them frankly, she's dead.
Unfortunately, as much as it hurts, that's a fact. Sydney is dead. She can't come back to me. Sometimes just thinking those three words is enough to drive me into a rage of anger or a depression so deep I don't know if I can ever find myself again. I'm powerless against this fact of my life. What choice do I have but to accept this? Still, I fight acceptance daily. Twenty-two months later, and I still grieve as deeply as I did immediately after her death. I like to think I know how to manage it better.
My sweet little rainbow girl is here and she has not healed me, as some had hoped would be the case. It's like putting a bandaid on a surgical incision. It simply won't heal that way. If you put a big enough bandaid on there, it might hold it, but it really won't heal. I love and adore this amazing miracle I've been given and I thank God for her daily. But I still miss her big sister more than words can describe. I didn't have her to replace Sydney or to make myself feel better. I had her because I wanted to raise another child. One doesn't replace the next. Nor do my older living children make up for their missing sibling.
It seems that there is this competition in the babylost world. The competition between parents with living children and parents with only dead children. Somehow the grief is worse for the parents without living children. In some ways, I can see that. There were days that the only reason I got out of bed was for my children. My rainbow has given me hope for the future, that our family will have a future that isn't one of complete grief and loss. But, on the other hand, as a mother of living children, I have had to watch--and help--my children grieve. I've had to hold myself together when all I really want to do is fall apart because they need me. Do you know how hard it is to have your children ask you, "Why did Sydney die?" How do you answer those questions when you are asking them yourself? I have had to guide my children (ages 7 and 6 at the time of Sydney's birth/death and 9 and 7 now) through their grief during the darkest moments of my life. I had to watch them cry and mourn knowing I could do nothing to ease their pain--and many days feeling like I was the cause of it.
There is another competition too, between those with one loss and those with multiple losses. A loss is a loss. Period. I miss my one child as much as someone else misses their two or three children. Yet, I can't imagine losing another child and how that would devastate me. I can see both sides of this again.
There are many times when I don't feel comfortable in this babylost world. I have living children, I've only had one loss (I've also had two other very early m/c, but for me I don't consider those the same as losing Sydney), and I have a rainbow. Where do I fit in? I still grieve for my lost baby. I still need support. But sometimes I feel guilty for looking or asking for that support. I know I've been blessed. I know how incredibly lucky I am to have my arms full. But someone is missing and my arms and heart still ache for her. I could have ten more children and still feel that emptiness.
