Losing Your Child: The Acute Phase

In the days following the loss of a baby, a child, so beautiful and pure, you find yourself reflecting on the precious moments you had and how they vanished so suddenly. These moments can shatter your heart, leaving you longing. Moments when you are unable to gather yourself, with the desire so strong to hold your baby, speak to them, listen to them, or simply even look at them.

Since my daughter left us, I have come to realize the depth of her essence. The bright twinkle in the eye that was not so regular. It was, in fact, so stunning and captivating. The gaze that held me captive. The voice that called to me constantly was so much more soothing than any music I will ever hear. The little acts of mischief that filled my days kept me tired and busy, but in reality, made me so proud. So proud that I never missed capturing anything she did. I cherished every moment, capturing her milestones as if they were priceless masterpieces.

Even now, I find myself in awe of her spirit. As the walls of the house seem to close in on me every single moment, I feel her grow stronger and stronger in me. I have come to understand that she has been the most important piece of our puzzle. The piece that has given us this shape, this beauty, this life.

As I navigate through profound grief today, I am compelled to share what thoughts cross my mind. I realise how I have always been a paranoid mother. Always too involved in all the little and big things around my children. My elder daughter was my primary focus for over eight years until our little Aabi arrived. With Aabi's birth, my concern intensified, as I wanted to ensure my elder daughter felt equally loved and included. We got closer as a family, naturally centering around the new baby. Before we knew it, she became the new center of focus for all of us, so beautifully.

We embraced each new moment with love, being amazed at everything new that came our way. How the sisters adored each other, just the way any mother would ever wish. Aabi adored her elder sister, mimicking her every move. Our house was a happy place, with music, giggles, laughter, fun, mischief, fights, and of course love. The absence of this is what is causing the pain now.

Not all good things last forever. Things!! But, she wasn't a thing. She was a whole person. Nothing in our home was out of the ordinary. Nothing that most homes don't have. Then what was so good that it couldn't last forever? I sit and wonder, gazing into the emptiness her absence has left us with. The pain is both physical and emotional, creating a profound sense of numbness that I never knew could coexist.

This is what acute pain of losing a child feels like. As it tears across you, you can feel the layers opening and peeling off you. Feels like drowning in yourself. Inexplainably excruciating. I often wish to express my feelings, but it seems challenging to find the right people to confide in. I end up talking to those around me, already in the same pain, making it worse. It doesn't seem like I will be able to bear it for the unknown times ahead. The heartbreak is overwhelming and ever-present.

Friends, family, and even grief counselors often fear the depths of these emotions. I wish they understood that my feelings are not suicidal; rather, killing. Like an external factor killing you every single moment of every day. I want them to know that I am not a threat to myself, but the longing for my baby feels unbearable. I hope they recognize that these emotions need an outlet.

I want to miss my child, constantly talk about her, carry her with me, cry for her, call out to her, ask her questions, and beg her to come back. I want to openly discuss how I feel. I wish to believe that it is normal to see her things around me always, with the hope that she will come and play with them, use them, and continue where she left. I never want to hear that this will never happen. I want to live in this false hope forever and ever. I hope my daughter finds this understanding that she has a sibling, and she can talk to her whenever she wants. I want her to keep her close to her heart and find strength in the fact that she is not alone. I want to always say, I have 2 beautiful daughters.

I am only able to find some ground for my feet when I look at my other daughter. I'm trying to honor both my daughters through her now. I am reminded to look at her and give meaning to life ahead, just as it has been since I had her. I am responsible for her future, and that it is all that should matter to me. This sense and realisation is what I am seeking in this difficult time. This understanding is now a journey we need to be on as bereaved parents.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, grappling with the pain of loss and seeking light during this dark time, remember to breathe. It's okay to feel overwhelmed; this love connection with your lost child will always remain. It will guide you through the healing process at its own pace.

I no longer seek quick solutions for my grief. Instead, I want to embrace it, integrate it into my life, and allow it to become a part of my family, just like my little one. I aim to learn from nature's course, accepting that I cannot fight it, because it always has its way. Healing will happen when it has to and cannot be rushed.

I am happy to connect and find this pace together!