July 24, 2012.
My whole world changed in moments.
I became a mom. I didn’t know before Vivian was born, that I could love someone so completely, that I felt my heart literally living outside my body.
Viv was prenatally diagnosed with Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome, but just 3 days after she was born, her diagnosis was altered to Turner Syndrome.
For 59 days, we loved her for a lifetime. I was able to spend almost every moment with her. After many interventions, countless care conferences and sleepless nights full of questions, her little body couldn’t do all the things it needed to do to function properly.
On September 21, I faced my greatest fear. I left the hospital without my baby. There isn’t a word weighted enough to describe the empty brokenness I felt inside. But as the days and weeks went by after Vivi’s death, I realized my brokenness actually opened up something inside of me.
It awakened a part of myself I didn’t realize existed. I learned that I have the ability to love with every being of my body and be asked to let go and still be ok. I learned that being a bereaved mom did not mean I would experience grief well, that I would live that right, but that my grief is the witness to the depth of my love for my daughter. Grief is the most heroic act we can go through. It is vulnerable, it can be scary, its definitely not linear, but it doesn’t showcase weakness. Instead, it showcases great strength, great love and great hope.
It has been almost 9 years since my Vivi died. Since her death, I have been continually reminded of the love she grew inside of me through the work I began after she died. Every day I have the privilege to work with families who have had to say goodbye to their child. Every day I am inspired by these families, families like yours, who embody heroic love.
I think back to my days in the hospital and one of the main sources of normalcy for me was the 2012 Summer Olympics hosted in London. For some reason, my husband and I would always catch my least favorite sports–track and field. One evening, while watching the hurtle runners, my heart sank to my feet as I listened to the gun shoot off, and just a few seconds over the start line I watched the runners approach the first set of hurdles.
While some glided so gracefully over them, others who trained the same, ate the same, sacrificed their lives for the sport the same, in this moment, the moment which was supposed to be their moment of glory, tripped over the hurdle. Yet every single one of them that stumbled, got back up and kept running.
For me, this image is how I explain grief. We can try to prepare for it, we can even have moments that we feel prepared for it, that we go through it well, and then just moments later we’re triggered and we fall apart.
What’s important is that we get back up. My hands, our hands, are outstretched to help you when feel like you can’t get back up.
Every day, you remember your child. Today, we are honored to remember with you in a special way. As we remember the love your child brought to our world, I also want to remind you–you are not alone. Your grief is not unseen. We are here for you. Just as we remember your child, today, we also remember you.