The Loss of Potential

I so desperately want to write something tonight. I’ve been sitting here looking at a blank screen for what seems like hours listening to the wind howling outside and I can hear the faint sounds of the TV from the basement where Darcy is. But the screen has remained empty for the majority of that time. Much like me. Another stage of mourning I suppose, but I feel just so used up. So empty and worthless. Not in a pity-party kind of way, but in a deeply tired in my soul way. Like a used tin can; contents emptied, can tossed aside. Of no use anymore.

These past few days have been particularly hard for no real evident reason, aside from the obvious. I’ve found myself wanting more and more to crawl into bed and cry for hours on end. My nights are still plagued with sleeplessness. I haven’t gotten more than two hours sleep in a row since Everlee died. I rarely sleep more than 3 hours a night. It’s really doing a number on my body, and it gives my mind no time to relax. It’s hard, on top of everything else that is already so incredibly hard. 

Today we started looking at headstones. I kept a brave face (I’m getting much better at swallowing my tears) but it was honestly one of the hardest things I’ve done in this whole process that has become my life. This will most likely be the last thing I ever buy for Everlee. The last thing I can really do for her. It will be her marker in the world. It’s how people will know she was here and that she was loved. How do I pick something like that? How do I commemorate the death of the dreams – first steps, words, days of school, riding a bike, learning how to swim and fish? How do I not only adequately mark the loss of our daughter, but a grandchild, a niece (by blood and love), a childhood friend for my friend’s children? How do I mark the loss of all of her potential and not just 34 weeks?

I thought Darcy and I would pick out a headstone today, I really wanted to get it done before we escaped for awhile,  but when we got there I was just flooded with all of that reality. This isn’t unfinished business to be dealt with. It’s a memorial to everything she was and could have been. I can’t rush that.  Her headstone will be simple, but I want it to be perfect, just like her. It’s worth that time. 

And for the first time I feel angry and jealous. I should be picking out dresses and hair bows. Instead I’m picking out headstones. 

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3 thoughts on “The Loss of Potential

  1. I’m glad you didn’t pick a marker today if it didn’t feel right. You’ll know when you find the right one. You can move at your own pace in this part. I felt guilty for YEARS that I hadn’t scattered Richard’s ashes. I wasn’t ready to let them go. It was never the right time but this fall, all the pieces fell into place and I got to do it. The trip was absolutely perfect and I am so glad I didn’t rush it. It took me eight years, but I got to do it the way I wanted and the way that worked for us. I hope the same kind of grace will visit you with this decision. Peace to you, Rhonda, and all the rest you can gather tonight.

  2. Dear Rhonda and Darcy:
    How did you know, that I needed to communicate with you. Did you know that I have been sitting for hours, crying in my safe spot, my chair in the livingroom. Maybe that is my spot, because that is where I sat for weeks, quilting Everlee’s Winnie-the-Pooh quilt. I spent so many hours there, looking for sewing ideas, special poses for pictures, toys, what stage she was at in her Mommy’s tummy. This is where, I felt very close to Everlee, so maybe that is why I run there for safety.

    Did you know that I have been trying to read, this pile of library books, that I try to attach myself to, only to stop and go to another internet site to look, up what a broken hearted grandparent is supposed to feel like. Did Everlee know, that her Grandpa comes upstairs to say, are you alright? It is okay to cry again, and again. He said this is your day to cry, tomorrow, it will probably be mine.

    We volunteered tonight to work at the Legion, and so many of our friends came up to greet us. They had been away when Everlee was born and they wanted to convey their sympathy. I keep saying “I am okay until somebody hugs me”. Is it the feel of their beating heart against mine, when I so want to feel only the beating heart of our little Everlee. I don’t know.
    Of course, it is hard seeing someone “new” and explain this situation again and again. It is hard when they ask you over to their home, and I can’t fake feeling like I am okay, that I am crying inside, and just want to go home. They ask how Darcy and Rhonda are doing, and I have to say, they are trying to live with something that is so terribly cruel and exhausting that noone should ever face.
    But do they really understand. I want to tell them every detail, so they Really can understand, what you are feeling (Even though I will never know this), I want them to feel your pain, just a little bit, so they could lighten your load, but again, this is something that is not possible. I thought it was odd that a mature lady, could only say sorry and run away and hid from us. Maybe it is because I am so verbal and it helps me to talk.
    I have felt like I have been trying so hard to be strong for everyone and doing quite well, but then these past couple of weeks, it is only worse. I guess it has hit us, that this is real and Everlee is in Heaven now.
    I have friends say this is so unfair, you love babies, you remember everybody’s baby’s name, birth dates. Yes, I would agree, that I do love babies, I can remember all of them, because everyone of these babies is so important, but at the same time, I want Everlee to be as important too.
    I try to rationalize with myself, that everyone, cannot be in the same spot, or suffer the same pain from the loss of a loved one at the same time. Otherwise, the whole world would be sad at the same time. Everyone has lost someone important to them, at some stage of their life. I could always feel sympathy and compassion for that person, but I could not feel the depth of their grief. I guess this is our time, to feel this intense pain and try to make our way through, one day at a time.
    Grandpa said today, why did this happen to “our” baby, Our kids. (I don’t want this to happen to anyone), but you can’t help but think it. Why are my kids, trying to pick out a headstone, when they should be talking about first smiles. Why are my kids, trying to go away on a trip, to get a distraction away from the unbearable pain they are in. Why can’t my kids, laugh and joke, like they did, only 7 shorts weeks ago. Why do I have to look at pictures,that I insisted be taken, (even though they had already had hundreds taken) that make me smile, but make we want to scream out and want those happy times again. Can’t anybody see how happy my kids where. Do we have to keep explaining.
    Why does the thought of something simple like it is raining in Newfoundland, bother me. It makes me angry. I don’t want my children to be in pain, I don’t want it to pour rain or despair on them any more.
    I agree with you Rhonda and Darcy, I too feel angry and jealous. I try to listen and watch on facebook all the stories and pictures about people with their babies. I don’t believe they should hide them, just because we can’t do the same. I do laugh and admire, but at the same time, I think, I want those things too, not for me totally but for you. I want the pictures, and outfits, and the admiring smiles. I don’t think we would be honest with ourselves, if we didn’t have these emotions.
    Most of all, I want my kids back, I want to see one little spark. I want to see a picture where they are laughing. I know it will take lots and lots of time, but if I could have one wish, that is all I would ask for. Dad and I love you with all our hearts. There may be distance between us, but there is a river of love that flows right to both of you at all times. Love Mom and Dad. Everlee’s Grandma and Grandpa will always have a hug and a tear to share with you.

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