Refuse to lose myself
Choosing to process grief
When I got a positive pregnancy test 9 months into my marriage, I was in shock. It was a shock that I got pregnant so easily and a shock that it was really happening. I always knew I wanted children. I can remember being in middle school daydreaming about what my children would one day look like in the future. I didn’t want them right then of course, but I knew that one day when I was a grown woman I wanted them. I loved my figurative children already. So when those pink lines showed up on that pregnancy test I was overjoyed, nervous, and unsure of what to expect.
The pregnancy luckily was a breeze for me. My husband and I would talk about the coming birth of our baby and what that would mean for us. Halfway through my pregnancy we got news that our Daughter was not entirely healthy. She had Gastroschisis (a condition where the intestines are outside of the babies body). She would need surgery immediately after her birth, and I was to be induced at 37 weeks pregnant to prevent a stillbirth. She would be in the NICU 5 weeks minimum, perhaps longer. I’m not sure if I wasn’t worried because it was a 95% survival rate or if I couldn’t face the stress that came along with that diagnosis. Either way I told myself that I was okay. Around the same time, my Mother who had dementia for a decade at this point, was getting worse. She was in Georgia and I was in Colorado with weekly prenatal appointments, making it so I could not go see her.
I couldn’t think about my own Mom missing this momentous occasion in my life. She had missed my wedding because of dementia and now she would miss my first pregnancy. I hoped that I would have enough time to fly my baby out to meet her. Then the induction date came on July 15th. I had my daughter the next day and she was taken from me after only five minutes to have surgery. She did amazing through it all and seven hours later I was sitting in her NICU room watching my precious baby with tubes and monitors attached to her. Not long after the birth, I was informed that my Mother was put on hospice. She was dying and I could not go and say goodbye. I focused on my daughter. I remember my siblings showing up for me. Hugging me, calling me, telling me that it would be alright. But I didn’t think I needed their support. I was so out of touch with my own emotions at that point that I didn’t even think I was under distress. Later I would realize I was in survival mode.
Two weeks before my daughter was discharged from the NICU my phone rang. It was my older sister.
“Mom can’t stop saying your name. She wants to talk to you.”
I was surprised. My Mother had long since forgotten who I was. When I had visited her in the past she thought I was her grandchild. She had also been dying the past week with hardly any food or water. Her sitting up in bed felt fake, surreal. It was hard to wrap my mind around what my sister was saying.
“Hello. Ashley.” I heard my Mothers voice on the other end. She almost sounded like herself before she had gotten sick.
“Hi Mom. It’s me.”
“Honey how are you? Have you eaten?”
“No, I’m fine Mom. I just had a baby.”
“You had a baby?”
“Yeah and I named her after you. Her name is Ellian Joy.”
“Grandma loves that.”
I paused choking my tears. “I miss you Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Those were the last words we said to one another. After I hung up I held my baby holding back from crying. I didn’t want to break down in front of all the doctors at the hospital. It was later that night in the car when I broke down. My husband held me as I sobbed. Then I wiped my tears feeling I needed to stay strong so I could be there for my daughter. My Mom passed away three days before my daughter was discharged from the NICU. The day we took her home was one of the happiest days of my life.
When my daughter was 8 months old and we found out we were expecting again I was once again overjoyed. Then when we lost the baby early on in the pregnancy I was forced to face my losses. I was broken down and I wasn’t sure how to move forward. I felt like the world was against me. I remember crying on the floor while my husband was at work. I realized that I had neglected my own emotions under the excuse of being strong. It wasn’t until then that I learned, allowing myself to experience the rollercoaster of emotions was probably one of the strongest things I could do. My daughter deserved a Mother who was whole, healthy, and joyful. She didn’t deserve a weaker version of me because I was to afraid to deal with my pain.
I told myself then that I had to get off the floor. I had to honestly and brutally acknowledge my feelings. I had to let myself cry. I had to allow those I love to support me. Trying to figure out myself alone, to be “strong” for others, was not strength. It was weakness and it had been quietly beating me down. I was not going to resist life anymore. I would embrace every aspect. The good and the hard parts. I used to be ashamed to cry in front of others. I didn’t want to be their burden. Now I realize crying is just as beautiful as laughter. Crying brings healing. Crying tears of sorrow or joy tell me just how in touch with myself I have become. It breaks through the hard parts of me and expresses intense emotion that I feel couldn’t be expressed any other way. Strength for me was allowing myself to address my mental health. If I had continued with the habits I had held until those moment I am sure I would be a depressed shell of me now. Instead I let myself cry, I journal, I talk about my past in therapy. Everyone needs therapy. I have just found myself again, and now I refuse to lose myself.