Ten Years Later – Class of 2003

Posted on August 23, 2013 by Rhonda

I’ve been slacking on writing here lately. It was never my intention to let this slip. it hasn’t been for a lack of thoughts or feelings. My mind races every second of the day and night. But a lot of those thoughts have become redundant. reliving every day as if I’m in the movie groundhog day. Reliving the same painful day over and over. Doing whatever I can to change it, only to wake up and face the same reality once again. Nothing I can ever do will bring Everlee back. Ever.

For the last few weeks I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the past, and the passage of time in general. Tomorrow night is my 10 year high school reunion. I’ve been converting our prom video to DVD to be played during the evening, and in watching the video I have gained a new appreciation for a lot of things. Looking at the 17 year old version of myself with the whole world and whole future in front of me is kind of spooky when viewed through the lens that is my life right now.

It’s hard not to be hopelessly optimistic around prom time. The most significant chapter of your life thus far is coming to a close. What has been a routine for 13 years is no more, and there is a degree of uncertainty and excitement about the future. With a head full of dreams and a heart full of bravery you’re set to march out into the big wide world and become what everyone has always described merely as your potential.

When I left St. Kevin’s ten years ago I had so many dreams. Like most girls, I thought I was going to marry my high school boyfriend. We has been together 2 years at that point – a lifetime in teenaged years. I was going to go to University. I was going to be a geologist (HA!). I was going to make a mark on the university the way I had made a mark on high school – by being involved and by being a big fish in the sea of students. And most important to me, as it always was, I was going to have a family. I wanted 7 kids.

But, as no one prepares you for in valedictory speeches, life throws you curveballs. Plans change. Friends change. Love changes. And ten years later you’re only a shadow of what you thought you would be.

Shortly after my first year of University I left my high school boyfriend. I realized that you had to be good at Math to be a geologist. And I realized that being a big fish in a big sea took A LOT of time. (It would eventually become the only thing I even came close to accomplishing on my list of goals for my undergraduate life.)

After first year I took a semester off, almost moved to BC and stayed because I fell in love (for what I now realize was the first time). He broke my heart. I went back to school. I met my husband-to-be. I got a BA. I got a job. I got married. I got a masters degree. I got pregnant. And then came Everlee. The best and worst thing to ever happen to be rolled up into a sweet 5lbs 1oz package of sleeping perfection.

My life in summary in the last 10 years.

It’s true what John Lennon wrote. Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. The days drag on, but the months and the years fly by. And before you know it you’re sitting here looking at yourself, full of hope, piss and vinegar wondering where that passion for life went. I don’t have less dreams but life has seemingly stood still and zoomed past all at the same time. And I’m sitting here, missing my baby girl more with every passing second waiting for life to show me what I’m supposed to do next.

Everyone endures tragedy. I may be the only one of our 90-odd classmates that has lost her child (and subsequently her heart and soul). But others have endured their own battles. Won and lost their own wars. Life has thrown them curveballs. Their Plans have changed. But, at the core, are we all still fundamentally the same? Do we still look toward the future with dreams in our heads and bravery in our hearts.

I do. I have to. What other choice do I have?

Inch By Inch

Posted on August 11, 2013 by Rhonda

To those of you who have been following my story, whether it be from right beside me, or only via my blog, you would know that around the same time that Everlee was born (within 6 weeks) both of my very best friends had babies as well. Claire was Born in January, and Danny was born in the wee hours of the first day or February. As a psychiatrist I spoke to once put it, it made a dreadfully tragic circumstance that much more painful for me to deal with. We were supposed to enter a new chapter of our lives together, like we did for high school, post-secondary and marriage. We’ve done everything together. And this was supposed to be the start of another generation of friends.

Don’t get me wrong for a second, I am over the moon happy for A and K. I love their children as if they were my own blood. They are wonderful babies. But knowing that my two best friends who I have turned to for everything in my entire life were now moving onto a stage of life that we were supposed to journey on together, without me, has been beyond heartbreaking. In spoken and unspoken ways we have been all in a delicate dance for the last number of months.

How much do I share of my sorrow without becoming too much?

And how much do they share of their joy without feeling like they’re hurting me?

Most times we don’t have to talk about this agonizing tango. It’s been hard. On all of us. Not just me. But both of them live at a distance and going through this without them nearby has been worse than I could imagine.

So when the stars aligned a few weeks ago that we could all be together again for the first time in over 2 years, I swallowed my pain and booked a ticket to Halifax so that I could spend a week with my three best girlfriends – two of them with their same-aged children.

A lot of people were worried about me. Including myself. Mostly myself. How would I deal with being in a house with two babies the same age as Everlee should be? Would their crying cut me like thousand tiny knives? And would I be able to look at them without feeling the pain of every one of Everlee’s missed smiles?

Surprisingly, spending time with the kids was not the hardest part of the week for me. What was harder to swallow was the fact that my two best friends has grown into the most wonderful mothers. Watching them cooing over their beautiful babies, and kissing away every tear, and falling in love all over again over every giggle was what was most painful. Their shells were the same, but they had found a new love in the eyes of their kids that has awakened a beauty that I had never seen in them before. Their smiles were brighter, and they glowed with pride. And the jealousy I felt was almost more than I could bear sometimes. And I fought with myself, So overwhelmingly happy for them, to see them oozing with pure joy. And so sad for myself, who should be feeling all of that love for my Everlee, but instead feeling them exact opposite. Hot, burning painful sorrow of her absence.

I enjoyed my week. We shopped. We laughed, we drank beer and talked about the past and the future. I love my girl friends more than almost anything in the whole world, and my pain did not and will not ever overshadow our lifetime of friendship. Long before children were on the immediate radar, the three of us dreamed of a scenario where our kids grew up together, close in age and close in proximity. We imagined our babies crawling around together, our toddlers fighting over toys, our pre-schoolers trading sentences. It’s only natural, of course, for us to wish the sort of closeness between our kids as we share ourselves. I grieve for that loss. But I am so thankful for their amazing supportive friendship. I am so incredibly lucky to have had these beautiful women in my life for the last 24 years. And nothing – NOTHING – will ever change that.

A, K, MD: I love you endlessly and thank you for being exactly the kind of friends I have needed every day of my life. And thank you for being there for me for that last week in Hali. You’re support and patience with me helped me more than you could ever understand, even if I never speak it aloud.

As I’ve changed -or maybe as my friends have changed- so have our relationships. Sometimes we’ve stayed buoyed to each other and sometimes we’ve floated away, each pushed along by the tide of our own lives. The friendships that have stuck and have followed me through my life despite all the changes, both theirs and mine, are the ones in which we’ve continued to find new places in our lives for each other.

I am not the same as I was seven months ago and neither are all of my friendships. There is no more animosity for the ones who could not stay but there is so much gratitude for the ones that did.

Being Everlee’s Mom

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Rhonda

A thousand times in the last three weeks I have wanted so badly to sit down and type out my feelings. I have had house guests for the last three weeks, and although it was nice to have people around me (as I’ve been spending an increasing amount of time alone whenever I can) I’ve felt myself hiding behind a mask to make everyone more comfortable around me, pushing everything into a bitter little ball inside of me, and using all of my force to keep that little nuclear bomb of emotion safe and hidden. It has been incredibly emotionally exhausting. So for the last few days that I’ve been home alone, I have essentially hidden myself away. I’ve barely been on the computer and I have spent countless hours just sitting in my backyard staring at the rose bush I have planted for Everlee.

Somedays, I feel like I am making strides forward. It’s not as hard to get out of bed, I don’t have to remind myself every 28 seconds not to cry, and I can go out into the world with minimal anxiety. Then there are the majority of my days, where I lie awake most of the nights in my bed and still can’t manage to force myself out of bed without having several emotional breakdowns. I spend at least an hour hyping myself up to leave the house. I hate when I see people I know. I’m sick. But not the kind of sick that keeps you bed ridden and contagious, but the kind of sick that tangles up your mind and fogs your logic and self control. On the outside, sometimes I’m sure I look perfectly fine with my mechanical smile and makeup on. but on the inside I’m all cobwebs and dust. And no matter how hard I try to get myself out of the house, and how good I may look to those around me, every motion I go through in the run of a day isn’t without pain and suffering.

For the majority of my career I have worked in student affairs at the post secondary level, where mental illness and people in crisis are almost an every day conversation. I really thought I understood what mental illness was before. I honestly had no idea. I didn’t know to the extent that a person could be sick, while remaining perfectly healthy.

I ran into one of my coworkers from the University where I worked before my current role. It was the first time I had seen her since shortly before I went on maternity leave. We had worked very closely together for two years and shared the same office space in that time, so we know each other quite well. In our discussion she pointed out to me that I shouldn’t feel guilty for being away from work, and taking time to heal myself right now. I have always been the kind of person who was willing (and quite often did) stay into the wee hours of the morning to make sure my students received the very best care. And now, I had to be willing to do the very same thing for myself. I don’t have a cough, or a cold, or even a bad back or high blood pressure. My sickness, and my problem isn’t something that can be seen on an X-ray, or in a blood test. And to a lot of people, they’re probably wondering what could possibly be wrong because I don’t LOOK sick.

My awesome group of doctors and psychologists have diagnosed me with reactive depression, generalized anxiety, mild agoraphobia and post traumatic stress. I am a strong person. I always have been. Having Everlee hasn’t changed that. Being sick doesn’t mean I am not strong, it just means I am so very tired from having to be so strong for far too long. As I posted on Facebook a couple of nights ago “You never know how strong you can be, until being strong is the only choice you have”. I am so lucky I have an amazing group of people that I work with that understand what mental illness means, and how much I need this time to heal right now. I am no good to my students, if I am no good to myself.

As an update, I have now gone through mostly all of the tests I need to have to start the fertility treatments we need to make Everlee a big sister. I now only have to wait to see the Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) specialist. Unfortunately, because I am not already pregnant, and therefore not seen as high priority, I have a longer wait list to face to see her. There are only two MFMs in the health board, so my appointment isn’t until January 20th. That being said, my fertility doctor has gotten me onto a waiting list and hopefully I’ll be able to see her much sooner. I have made it known I can be there in 5 minutes if they need me to be.

It’s extraordinarily hard for me to feel like I am making any forward movement when I am teetering on this edge of uncertainty in terms on my fertility. I have said for a very long time, I won’t feel like I am moving forward until the fertility treatments start, and I still feel that way. I was born to be a mommy. And I am. I am Everlee’s mommy, which is more challenging than I had ever foreseen motherhood to be. I love her more and more every day, even if she isn’t here to feel that love herself. I have so much love to give my baby, so I look forward, and long for the day when I have a child in my arms, to be a little brother or sister to the baby I will always have in my heart.

Every step.

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Rhonda

It’s no secret to anyone, especially those of you who read my blog, that I have had body issues my whole life. I hate my body.

When I was 15, I got my first tattoo. A dove done in rainbow colours on my shoulder blade. It represented something that changed me, and something that meant love to me, my time in England and the friends I made there (I took part in something called the PEACE project, dealing with racially motivated violence and conflict resolution). I thought that if I could use my body as a canvas for all of the beautiful things in my life, that then my body would be beautiful. (Editors note: the tattoo was actually poorly done, and right before I got married
I had it redone by the wonderful Alicia at Trouble Bound who made it the beautiful piece it should have been)

Since that first tattoo, I have gotten comedy/tragedy masks on my ankle (for my love of performance and to remember the lessons I learned from my high school teacher Tony Duffenais). And last year I had some colourful stars with the words “live laugh love learn” on the inner side of my forearm, in my dear friend Roxy Peterson’s hand writing. All things I began to accept into my life because of him.

Today I added to my art collection and this is by far my most beautiful and meaningful of all of my tattoos. Huge thank you once again to Alicia at Trouble Bound. Now my little girl will literally be with me every step I take.

Five Months.

Posted on July 13, 2013 by Rhonda

It’s peculiar, people often ask me why I’ve chosen to write about Everlee, our family and my feelings on being a childless first time mother. It constantly amazes and humbles me when I see people and they make reference to reading my blog. Neighbours, friends, family and colleagues, but most surprising to me, dozens of other moms that have found themselves in this very lonely and sad club that we never wanted to be a part of. I have received emails from all over the world, and have found support online where there has been a void in my every day life. In the very early days it was simply to find my lost voice. To find a way to express those most deep raw emotions that could only bubble on the surface of my consciousness.

In the last 5 months this blog has been viewed by over 50000 people, and from what I can gather, has about 500 regular readers who read every entry. At the beginning, I didn’t care if anyone ever read what I wrote, but now I see that this space has become so much more to me than a place to let my words spill from my soul.

To a lot of people, Everlee was only ever a bump on my belly. A fun little (slash not so little) roundness that I carried around and made me waddle. She was something that made my tummy go thump and made me love chicken wings and flakies. But in writing this blog, I have been able to give people a glimpse into the person she was, and could have been. She was spirited, and active and she was loved more deeply than I ever thought I was capable of loving. She made me happier than I had ever been in my entire life in her short time with us. And losing her will always be the most painful thing I have ever had to endure. But having her, even for the shortest amount of time that she was with us, was the happiest I have ever been.

And that’s why I continue to write. So we never forget a beautiful little girl who brought an unimaginable amount of joy for a much too short time.

Happy 5 month birthday, baby girl.

Breathe

Posted on July 10, 2013 by Rhonda

What a difference a new perspective can make.

I spent the night awake, worrying, wondering, hoping.. anxiously awaiting my appointment with my new doctor this morning at 11am. If you’ll recall the last one didn’t go so well:

https://everleerose.com/2013/05/13/i-dont-know-how-much-more-i-can-take/

After that appointment I ended up meeting with the managing nurse at the clinic I go to and complained about how I was treated. She was so apologetic and suggested maybe a fresh set of eyes and a fresh start for us would do well. And boy was she right.

In the time that has passed since I wrote that entry I have lost 27.3lbs (probably a little less since I did some celebrating today..) and have spent hours upon hours working on my own mental health, and overall well being.

I spent the night last night in agony wondering would all of my hard work be in vain? Would I be sent away again only to be told that my size was the only diagnosis I would be given? Would my health even be given consideration this time around?

My new doctor was a breath of fresh air. She said she wanted to do a number of tests (bloodwork mostly) to rule out anything that may be a risk in any subsequent pregnancy, if we’re lucky enough to get to that stage. She wants me to see the Maternal fetal Medicine specialist (essentially an extraordinarily high risk pregnancy doctor) to determine how we’ll approach a pregnancy next time around, and she said once that is done and we have a clear slate in front of us, we can start fertility treatments. Right now that looks like either August or September. With this sort of thing, it always a matter of timing.

*I* had to bring up my weight. She said I had done an amazing job, and that she knew I lead a healthy lifestyle before I was pregnant and she wasn’t at all concerned. She told me to keep doing what I’m doing. She said another 15-20lbs wouldn’t hurt, but she’s not concerned as long as I was healthy and mentally ready to move in this direction.

Night and day.

It has been so long since anything positive has happened for us, this day was everything we could have hoped for. So after 2 solid months of agonizing over every morsel of food I have put into my body, I had a cheeseburger, a beer and an ice cream! (Back to healthy clean eating tomorrow I promise!).

Darcy and I had promised ourselves that no matter what happened today that we would do something we both loved and enjoyed, so we spent the afternoon out on the water whale watching in our beautiful province of Newfoundland. The air was clean and crisp, the whales and birds were plentiful, and there was even a rainbow brought too us by a playful humpback. And for anyone who frequents baby loss blogs or groups, like I know so often many of my blogging friends do, they know the symbolism of a rainbow. And I think my little Everlee had something to do with bringing one to us today, even on the most sunshiny day… We caught a glimpse of our rainbow.
This is what hope feels like. I missed this feeling.

Cruel summer

Posted on July 7, 2013 by Rhonda

It’s been awhile since I’ve written (for me anyway). These last few weeks have been busy (especially for someone who is currently on leave from work). My in-laws are in town visiting for the next few weeks so I’ve been busy preparing for their arrival. It’s been exhausting for me because I still have only about a maximum of an hours staying power outside of my house. I find it mentally exhausting to be around groups of people.

I went into work for a meeting this week. I was sitting in the hallway waiting for a few people when a faculty member stopped in the hallway and said to me “so was it a boy or a girl?!”. It gutted me. It took away all of the confidence I had spent the whole day building just to be there. I hate that even after 5 months I still get those moments. I know, because of the large circle of people around me, I’ll be having those moments for many months to come. It just doesn’t get any easier. It never does. No day has been easier than any of the others. There’s still an empty ache.

My memory book that I made for Everlee arrived last week. It’s beautiful, for what it is. I should be making her baby book. Writing down all of her firsts. Cooing over her drooley smiles and in awe of the smallest milestones. Instead, I’m letting big tear drops fall on the only pictures ill ever have of her.

I’ve finally started sharing our family pictures in the book with people. It’s painful for me to look at. My eyes in those pictures haunt me. They’re the same eyes I see in the mirror, I just don’t look at them now. But in those pictures they burn into me. So much sadness, hurt and heartbreak. All the while, the most beautiful little girl laying there sleeping, in my arms. What I wouldn’t give for just one more minute to feel the weight of her in my arms, or in my belly. Now all I’ll ever have is contained in just 20 pages in a hard cover pink book.

We built a new deck in our backyard over the last two days. I remember being so excited over the winter that we were doing this. I could just I true me and my little one out on the deck in the summer. Getting a kiddie pool to splash in. So many wasted plans, so much wasted potential. I’m glad to have the space out there, but it’s so tainted. Everything is. She should be here. She should be enjoying her first family vacation time. Her absence is everywhere I look.

I’ve gotten so good at holding everything together on the surface all while dying over and over again on the inside. Only so often do I let my emotions spill on to my cheeks in front of people (thank you large,ironed aviators).

The first time I’ve cried in public in a long time was this week. Darcy and I finally made it back to visit our amazing nurse K. When the elevator doors open on the case room floor my heart just about beats out of my chest. Walking in there I started to sweat. My chest felt tight. I was teetering on the edge of a panic attack the whole time. While we were waiting for her to come meet us, a woman poked her head out of the patient area, camera in hand and called out to her son “Adam, would you like to come meet your nephew?” She said with such a huge smile. And in that instant I hated her. It took everything in me not to scream at her. Why did she get to be happy? Why did she have all of those happy pictures on her camera and not me? And I cried, and cried and cried, and just like 5 months ago, K calmed me. She is the embodiment of everything a nurse, and a good person should be. I’ll never thank her enough.

So now I struggle to get through the next few days. Wednesday I go back to see the doctor. A new doctor this time, in the same clinic but a new doctor. I am 22.5 pounds down since my last visit and only 20lbs away from where they asked me to be. WITHOUT SURGERY, Dr Arsehole. .. I’m prone to those outbursts. I hope to have at least another few gone by Wednesday.

Sorry that this entry is a little scattered.After a day in the heat I have a sunburn and I’m sleepy. I hope the sun helps me sleep, but as the song goes, it’s a cruel summer.

A Little Help From My Friends

Posted on June 30, 2013 by Rhonda

Darcy and I often joke about my twice weekly visits to the psychologist. We’ve dealt with just about every situation in our lives using humour. It’s how we cope, and this isn’t very different in that respect. Often, after our appointments together we’ll look at each other and say “still crazy? yep.” and chuckle and move on to face whatever that day has to hold. On the outside, we put on our bravest faces. On the inside, usually we’re both barely held together by the seams.

“How the hell do you think I am?”

How many times have I wanted to scream that at anyone who cares to ask how I’m doing? People wouldn’t ever expect me to react that way. They’d know I was crazy. Alternatively, how many times have I wanted to meet their eyes, all calm, cool, and collected, and say that? Just say it– no forced smile, no nothing. How many times? I’ve lost count. And how many times have I actually said it? None. But none of us are any good at this. Sometimes people don’t know HOW to ask how I’m doing. And sometimes, I really don’t know how to answer.

Why is that, you think?

I think part of my need to appear sane isn’t about me at all. It’s not about my pride being hurt if I’m pitied; looked at like a sad puppy in the pound at the SPCA. It’s not about being patronized with idiotic advice on how to make things all better. I think some part of this is about the need to have Everlee seen as profoundly cherished, and not just some event that has driven me to the brink of insanity. I hold it together so that when I choose to talk about her, I am not dismissed. I think one of the things I want most is for others to understand my grief, just a little bit. It’s not an overreaction. It’s a deep love for my child who has died, and that warrants the most hurtful and deep sort of grief there is. It’s messy. and hard. But it’s far from an overreaction. And that’s hard for others to see sometimes when they haven’t been here. I know that I am slowly finding my footing in this new world I’ve found myself in but it is, by far, that hardest thing I have ever done (and will ever have to do, one would hope) in my life.

I have so many wonderful people in my life who regularly check in on me. I still don’t spend much time with people. I find it so difficult. It gives me anxiety to the point where I break into sweats and have to actively think about how to breathe. It’s getting easier than before, no doubt, but it’s still a challenge. That’s why I am so thankful for things like Facebook that allow me to still maintain those relationships that are so important to me (and, it seems, meet people who have families like mine).

“Hi Rhonda, I just wanted you to know that I am thinking of you, Darcy and Everlee today. Love you xo”

So simple. So easy. That very tiny bit of love, sent regularly by keyboard, lets me know that my friends care,even if they don’t completely understand. It soothes my beastly bitterness at how the world slights this type of loss. Facebook, of all things, has saved some real friendships, by helping me let people off the hook for not being better at this.

No part of this has been easy, and more than occasionally I have been teetering on the brink of losing it. However, there is not a doubt in my mind that it is that love from the amazing people in my life that has hauled me back from the depths of grief stricken hell. Am I insane? No. Do I often feel like I might be? Absolutely. But one thing is for certain, and that is that without my friends, and my family and my Darcy I wouldn’t be able to put on that brave face and keep my seams from bursting apart with all of the pain inside.

Life, Revisited.

Posted on June 25, 2013 by Rhonda

Every time I’ve sat down in front of a blank screen this week I’ve been at a loss for words. With Before-Rhonda that would be shocking. With After-Rhonda, not so much.

My words are lost somewhere between my heart and my fingers. I rarely write here with my head. When I started this blog I knew it wouldn’t mean anything if I wasn’t completely honest and raw as a writer. I write first and think after most of the time. It gives me some catharsis then. A release that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t find anywhere else.

After my last entry, Darcy looked at me and said “You know, your blog entries are incredibly self loathing”.

And he’s not wrong.

I see that when I write, but more and more, I see that when I look in the mirror. And I know that’s what I need to change now more than anything. I can’t bring my daughter back. No amount of hoping and praying nor well wishes from others will ever give me what I need most. I used to love myself, every little bit of me. I loved who I was and I loved what I saw when I looked in the mirror. I wasn’t ashamed of who I had become. But that was Before, and After-Rhonda needs to fight her way back to that spot, if that sacred piece of ground still exists. Maybe it’s somewhere in a new place.

When I started this blog, I started it from the very depths of my own hell. A hell I have barely begun to inch my way out of. I’ve lost track of the stages of grief. I’m not sure I’ve ever really gone through any of them fully. I’ve always been the type to do things my own way, anyhow. Why should this be any different? At least that part of me hasn’t changed. But Darcy is right, that fun-loving side of me is gone, those shiny blue eyes that could look in the mirror and love what they saw are dull, and weary and tired. At least for the moment. Maybe forever. Who knows? But I’m working so hard to get that spark back; To try to find a little bit of joy. Right now I would settle for being able to face the world without being medicated half the time.

Every now and then I get a glimpse at what my life was like Before. It’s so alien. I’ll see my own photo and I’ll not recognize myself. I want that feeling back. I want to feel like tomorrow is promised again. I don’t want to face my own mortality like this. I don’t want to feel death so close anymore. I don’t want to be heavy with grief. But I am. And I look at those pictures it’s like life, revisited.

Ive started beating the crap out of my body with exercise. Eating right wasn’t working fast enough. I have just over 15lbs gone in the last 5 weeks. It hurts to move, but at the same time the ache reminds me that I’m still alive and that I’m still breathing even though most days I feel like I’m merely existing in my own little world. I’m trying to learn to love it. I’m not there yet, but I know it will make me healthier and stronger for Everlee’s brother or sister.

It’s easy sometimes for me to hide behind my screen and interact with people this way. No one has to see the sadness in my eyes or hear the cracks in my voices. No one has to watch my eyes well up and my body recoil as I learn to live with discomforts of being this new me. It’s easy to type “:)” or “haha” to fool other people. I do it every day. That’s why I love social media so much. You can create a persona and no one is any wiser. But here, in this space where everyone sees me as who I really am, I don’t have to hide. And although my blogs are honest, and real and sometimes painful and self loathing they’re who I am right now. But readers I want you to know, that no matter how far down I am, I will always be fighting to get back to that place where I can smile and feel happy again. Because here, I’m Everlee’s mom, and I’ll always fight to make her proud of me.

It only hurts when I breathe

Posted on June 19, 2013 by Rhonda

I think that I am starting to accept that I will be sad forever. It is my destiny to grieve. I mean shouldn’t I? I have a child who has died. Should I not be sad until the day that I die? And it is just starting to dawn on me, I should be sad. I should be sad every moment of every day. How peculiar would it be if I wasn’t sad for my Everlee? How cold and heartless would I be? Instead of worrying that I’m still sad, I should worry that some day I might not be sad…as much as I desperately want the sadness to go away, the sadness means that she was real, and that she mattered.

I know that at some point I have to allow myself to be happy, or at least that’s what my psychologist tells me. But I’m not there yet, and I’m not sure I ever will be. I have cried every day and I don’t know if the tears will ever stop.

So often I go around feeling like I am alone in my misery, with Darcy. I don’t know many people (and I know nobody my own age) who has gone through this kind of tragedy. I don’t often get to see people on the other side of this Everest of pain. It seems sometimes that no one remembers that I was pregnant, and that there was a living being here on this earth that looked just like me and Darcy.

People forget that every day, every minute, I pine for that tiny soul, my sweet Everlee.

People forget that shoving their big bellies in my face, or their newborns reminds me of how broken and lost I really am and what I’ve lost, and what I may never have again.

Its human nature to forget, maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t know.

Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

I can’t begrudge them (even if secretly, occasionally, I want to poke them in their perfect world).

And just when I thought that every last soul on this earth (except Darcy) had forgotten that I had a precious baby once too, someone comes along with a nudge to tell me they remember.

Thank you Cathy, for giving me what many others could not.

Being Everlee's Mom

The story of being mommy to an angel