Waves of grief
It’s been nearly 2 years since I gave birth to my sweet, perfect Julia. I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on my grieving process. Though I have grieved many loved ones in my short lifetime, and a few other tragic losses at that, this grief is unlike anything else. Not only because I am grieving my own child, but I am grieving someone I never even got the chance to meet. It is such a strange, unique kind of grief and I have such difficulty conceptualizing it.
Like many others will say, grief comes in waves. But I feel like I am often grieving so much more than just her death. And so when I feel sad of course it’s because I miss my daughter, but I’m also sad for me and what my body endured. I’m sad for the future I imagined for my family. Im sad for pregnancy after loss Danielle who felt constant fear instead of joy. I feel like I’m grieving in so many different capacities and it can be so overwhelming to me most days.
I recently saw a video of a woman explaining her grieving process of her precious baby girl, Poppy, who had a rare genetic condition (TBCD) that took her life far too young. She went on to explain that yes, grief happens in waves, but there is not just one wave of grief, there are multiple waves happening simultaneously. This really resonated with me and has helped me work through what I’ve been feeling. Here’s a link to her video for reference:
Below is a chart that signifies the waves of grief that I experience after Julia’s loss.
We have the green line which represents the grief I have for the life I envisioned when I found out I was pregnant. Another baby just 18 months apart from her big sister! As soon as I found out Julia was a girl my mind immediately went to what life would look like with two girls so close in age. I imagined putting them in cute matching outfits, having them share a room when they got bigger, fantasizing about them being the best of friends throughout their whole lives and always having each other. This green line represents Joanna and Julia— the two crazy Arrieta girls. Any time I see a little girl around 2 years old I think about Julia and what should have been. What would she have looked like at this age? What would her personality have been? What would she enjoy doing? What silly things would she be saying? This green line represents two year old Julia. Or any time I see a family with 2 under 2 I think about what our experience would have been like. I think about all of the comments I received while pregnant like “you’re sure going to have your hands full!” or “are you ready for this?!” This green line was everything I pictured for the 7 wonderful months I got to carry Julia inside of me. This line is the life we were supposed to have if everything went perfectly.
In the orange line, my grief revolves around the fantasy life I imagined if Julia were to have been born alive when I went into the hospital on October 1st— if she were to have been born at 29 weeks gestation and after having had an intensive NICU stay. I imagine she would have been physically and developmentally delayed some, but with the hope she would eventually catch up on her curve. I once again grieve the life her and Joanna would’ve had together, even closer in age than expected. Would Joanna be incredibly protective of her little sister? Would she be even more nurturing after seeing her baby sister struggle her first few months of life in and out of doctors appointments? I live here at this orange line a lot. I get stuck in this fantasy (though it’s most people’s nightmare) that I could’ve delivered her alive at 29 weeks and what life could’ve been like for us. Not too long after we lost Julia a close family member of ours had to emergency deliver her daughter at 28 weeks gestation. Her beautiful girl was born with nearly identical measurements to Julia. While it was so hard to see her fight for her life attached to so many wires, and while my heart absolutely broke for their family thinking of how scared they were, a huge part of me felt, and still to this day, feels so much envy of them. I get lost in “if I just got to the hospital sooner” or “if I noticed something was wrong earlier” this could have been us. It’s hard for me to look at pictures or videos of her because all I can think about is Julia. It’s so hard to see what could have been. This orange line houses my guilt of not knowing something was wrong, and my hope that something could’ve been done to save my baby girl.
Last is the purple line. This line hurts the most because this line represents reality. My baby is dead. There was no miracle that saved her, it wasn’t me just being paranoid that she wasn’t moving, I didn’t get to have an emergency surgery to save her when we found out she was in distress, no. The purple line is exactly what happened and all of the trauma that came with her loss. This line represents the feeling of guilt I get every time I think back to not feeling her move. This line represents the fear in my voice as I called Jesse and my parents to tell them I needed to go to the hospital for a possible early delivery. This line represents the panic on the doctors face as she did an ultrasound and found no heartbeat. This line represents the numbness I felt when I was told Julia was gone. This line represents the 10 hours of holding my baby inside of me knowing she was no longer alive. This line represents the excruciating pain of labor. This line represents the epidural that didn’t work in time. This line represents giving birth to my lifeless daughter. This line represents holding my sweet baby for the first time. This line represents saying hello and goodbye in the same breath. This line represents the physical recovery of giving birth, of drying up my milk supply that was meant to nourish my daughter, of bleeding for weeks and postpartum hormones. This line represents seeing my daughter in a casket and burying her teeny tiny body. This line. This stupid fucking purple line.
Grief comes in waves, yes. In time things get easier, also yes. I feel happiness and joy every single day, yes. I love all three of my girls so much, yes. But, nearly two years have gone by since the absolute worst day of my life, and I feel just as broken now as I did that day. New bandaids have been added to these open wounds and though the pain subsides momentarily, it will never ever heal. And that’s what grief is. It never goes away, but we become one with it, and eventually, we grow with it.
Julia, my sweet perfect Jules, I miss you more than words could say. I will forever grieve who you would be, in every way you could’ve been. You will always hold a piece of my heart. I love you and I will share you until I see you again.
You’re the best part of heaven to me <3 (don’t worry, Millie, you’re a close second. Hold my girl extra tight for me. I love you both).