Sometimes it’s like you’re still just waiting, waiting for the baby to come. Back then wasn’t much different to now – or at least the now when you get lost in something for about five minutes to the point that you actually forget for a second. And then it’s like a brick hits you. Really hard. Like right in the face. And then again, but in the stomach. Your baby died.
Its so surreal. Like more than surreal. I don’t know what that word is. You catch yourself realising that your baby has died, as if it’s the first time you’ve realised it. And it’s so unrelatable, so unthinkable, that there’s no possible way your brain will actually believe it. It won’t let the truth resonate. It rattles around in your head for a moment, rebounding off the surfaces, trying to find a place to stay. But it doesn’t fit, there’s no room. No comfortable place to sit and sink in. So it floats away.
And what’s comfortable is just plodding along, going about the day to day, not really connecting with reality, with the concept that your baby died. So you sit in this slightly disjointed view of life, as if you’re seeing it all happen through a dirty window. You know there’s no baby but through the dirty window view of the world this seems normal, you’ve adjusted to it.
And then. Smash. A brick through the window again.
I guess one day it’ll fully sink in. And you’ll realise it all the time. And your stomach won’t get hit with that massively sinking feeling every now and then. Right now, maybe this pattern is just self protection. Avoidance. Denial. Whatever it is, it’s exhausting.
7 thoughts on “When Grief is a Brick to the Stomach”
I would just like to tell you how helpful I am finding reading your blogs. I recently lost my daughter, Florence, in labour and can really relate to everything you are feeling and the emotions you are experiencing. It is comforting to know I am not alone in my thoughts. Thank you.
Thank you so much for commenting – it’s nice to hear that my writing is helping others as well as me. I am so sorry that you are having to go through this journey too. Please do reach out if you want too – this ‘club ‘ is one no one wants to be in but I am learning that it is a very helpful club to be in. Take care and look after yourselves. Florence is a really gorgeous name xx
It’s odd, I know, but even two years out, there are times when reality hits me fresh again. You must be right that someday it will no longer happen, but I haven’t arrived there yet.
Thinking of you both xxx
I’d say I could have written this post, but I couldn’t. You’ve written it a lot better than I could have. But really I’ve felt what you’re feeling, over and over again. My mind still can’t really process it at all, and it’s like it hasn’t really happened sometimes. Actually most of the time at the moment. Sending strength xxx
It took me ages to work out that disjointed feeling. I think it’s just so unbelievable that I genuinely refuse to believe it sometimes. Today I even thought, if I wished it to change, it would. Because it could. We could just wake up. It sucks. Strength to you too. The light has to be there. Somewhere. Xx
I’ve read your post several times this evening. It resonates with me and how I’ve been feeling. Like when people ask how you’re doing and you say ‘okay’, and of course you don’t mean it AT ALL. But what else can you say because surely this isn’t real? Thank you for sharing this so eloquently though xxx