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Right where I am Project: 3 years, 7 months, exactly

June 19, 2011

I am at a frantic time in my year. I made it through the semester: I go out into the field; I have dealines for grants and papers. I’ve been gone — physically and mentally. Last night I started reading some blogs again for the first time in many months and got wind of the “Right where I am Project” from Angie at StillLife365. I searched for the ladies that I knew and read their posts and then I was sent into a spiral of memories and self-analysis. How do I feel 3 years and 7 months after Norah died? Where am I right now?

My daughter Norah Clare died on November 18, 2007.  I was devastated; my children were confused and sad; my husband was lost. We did what we had to do to get through the first couple of months. At first, we were on the same grief page. He pulled it back together quicker than me. I grieved for a very long time. I had another baby, almost one year after Norah a died, a girl, my rainbow. She did bring happiness to me and my family; she did help us heal. I still grieved. Two and a half years after Norah died, I had another baby, a boy, my sunshine. We all healed some more. Our two little ones are so loved by the family, we know what the alternative is. I much prefer getting up 12 times a night and breastfeeding nonstop to buying a casket and burying my baby.

The conversations about Norah continue…

Oldest daughter (8): “I miss Norah.”

Me: “I do too.”

Oldest daughter: “Why did she have to die?”

Me: “I don’t know. Her heart stopped beating and her lungs stopped working. That situation is not compatible with life.”

Oldest Daughter: “Did it hurt to die?”

Me: “I don’t really know because I have never died. However, I suspect that it is easy and it doesn’t hurt to die. I suspect that it is peaceful.”

Oldest Daughter: “Where is Norah now?”

Me: “Norah is all around us. She is the wind, the trees, the air. She is the sunshine that warms our faces. She is the breeze that strokes our skin.”

Our family continues to heal but one is always missing. Always, she is the space at the dinner table, the space beside of me walking in the store, the space at the end of the sentence. If she were here, we would be…..

Where am I? Sometimes I am lost; sometimes I am here. My life moves onward. I am usually engaged but can fall into periods of melacholy. I am living.

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5 comments

  1. Perfectly put. I’m so sorry Norah is not here with you all. The questions from your older daughter broke my heart. So hard to see children struggle with a grief that is too much for even us adults to comprehend.
    Visiting from Angie’s blog.
    xo


  2. it is so sad to hear our living children talk about our lost ones. It breaks my heart every time.


  3. I’m so glad you were able to take part in Angie’s project. As you know, I felt an affinity with your story from the first moment I heard it. You walked this path almost a year ahead of me and your words helped me so much in the early days of my grief – and still.

    This – “Always, she is the space at the dinner table, the space beside of me walking in the store, the space at the end of the sentence. If she were here, we would be…..” is perfect. Babylost grief in one sentence. I wish Norah was in her space. I wish Emma was in hers.


  4. D. – and Jill –
    Your answers to “Where is she now?” just brought tears to my eyes. How poignantly beautiful. My children, particularly my 5-yr-old also ask those questions. The other day, I overheard her and her 3-yr-old brother, my 1st rainbow, talking about J.T. “You didn’t know him,” she said. “Oh, yes I did,” he replied . . . and I do believe he does.
    Hugs to you both.


  5. StacieM from mothering forums. Your post was so moving….

    “Our two little ones are so loved by the family, we know what the alternative is. I much prefer getting up 12 times a night and breastfeeding nonstop to buying a casket and burying my baby.”

    ^^^^^^
    Yes that. More people need to read that. All the ones who grumble and complain about every little thing during pgs, about their lack of sleep, about their spirited toddlers.

    Hearing that breaks my heart for women like you who’ve endured painful losses. My SIL is also one of them. She has two 20+ week losses and has had to hear people complain right in front of her when they know her situation. It’s enough to upset me!



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