It has been four years since Abby died. Yes, four years. Unbelievable… It feels like yesterday and, at the same time, like a lifetime ago.
She should be here bossing around and playing with her two little brothers. But she is not.
Despite what most people might believe, time does not heal the wound of losing a baby. Instead, it amplifies it. It amplifies the amount of time you have not been by their side, and the number of goodnight kisses you have not given them. It amplifies the milestones you never got to witness with your child. It amplifies how much you have missed them over the four years since the day they died. It amplifies how much you love them. And the pain, oh my God, the pain. Their loss still hurts like it happened yesterday. But people don’t understand that. Some even ask when you will be done grieving, as if grief and love had an expiration date. They forget that your child existed in this world, even though they were stillborn. People also forget that from that day on, you are changed and are no longer the person you were before the loss. They think that because it has already been four years, the pain is gone, and they don’t need to mention their name anymore. They think that because you have two other kids and you smile sometimes, you are happy again, as if one child could replace another. The pain has not disappeared. It is still there, despite the moments of happiness, loud and clear. Your heart will forever be missing a piece.
I wish no one had to go through what we went through. But if you have not lost a child, it can be very difficult to understand our feelings and to be part of our lives. Sometimes it is not easy for us to stay in touch with, or be around, people who don’t get it. Life has changed us, not for better or for worse, just changed. I would like to believe it has made us wiser and has taken the blinders off our eyes. We now know who truly cares about us and our little family, and who doesn’t. After four years without Abby, we have learned to cope with the pain, we have learned to live with it, and we have learned to smile again. But the pain does not disappear. You grow around it. You live your life with grief and pain coexisting. Your life grows around it, even as your circle of people gets smaller. You stay close to the people who understand the pain and allow you to grieve, and you leave behind many people who don’t help you cope or don’t understand, whether they are immediate or extended family or former best friends. It is impossible to predict who will stay in your life and who will be let go. In reality, it is not your choice. It is the other person’s choice.
Every year on Abby’s birthday, we try to post a picture of her that shows how much we love her and in which she looks very pretty, like a little princess doll.
This year, instead, we want to show our suffering and pain so people can try to understand what we went through. Raw pain, so others don’t forget. The kind of pain you can never describe in words. The kind of pain that makes you scream the way you did when you found out your baby was no longer alive. We are not ashamed to show our grieving faces, because life can be sad and happy at times, and that is okay to show too. To the mothers and fathers who have lost a baby or a child: you know exactly what we mean. We share your pain. We are you.
We wish our post this year were different, but life has taught us that when you stay quiet, people assume you are happy and pretend that your baby who died never existed or never mattered, at least not the way your living children do.
As Abby’s parents, we do many things as a family to remember and honor our daughter every day, but even then it never feels like enough. We know Abby does not need anything, and nothing we do will change that, but sometimes you feel guilty that your life keeps going without her. As grieving parents, you try to keep her memory alive. You tell your living children that she was their big sister. You put her name on everything so you can at least see it written somewhere. You write her letters when you have a quiet moment. You tell her about your day, whether it was good or bad. Your worst fear is the world forgetting her.
When people, especially those close to us, decide not to use her name anymore or mention her in any way, or forget important dates like her birthday or the anniversary of her death, after only four years, we feel like we are failing as parents. But that failure is not on us. It is on them.
We love you, Abby. You are always in your parents’ minds and hearts.
Remembering you on your 4th anniversary, sweet girl.
