First published on my blog.
*Editor’s Note: Living child mentioned and shown (a family friend).
I kept her alive. Of course it took the both of us to make her, that afternoon in his small student room, and from that moment he was always there, and he always loved her. But for the 9 months I sheltered her, my body literally kept her alive. I fed her, protected her, cradled her, carried her everywhere. This miracle, I still can’t explain it. And if this is to be my only pregnancy, I’m grateful she was the one.
I kept her alive, for the 6 months that I could breastfeed her. She loved breastfeeding from the start. She was a glutton baby, ferocious even ! She made me bleed and once even made a hickey on her dad. When we ended up in PICU and they asked what milk brand she was used to so they could feed her through her NG tube, I was shocked. It didn’t even make sense to me that she could drink anything but my milk, that she could survive on something that wasn’t mine. And in the middle of this hurricane, I found a disproportionate pride in my ability to pump milk for her.
I kept her alive when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I fought for her, a tiger mom, a pain in the ass, I’m sure. I ringed the nurses and I studied the chemo protocols and I checked the meds and I asked for second and third opinions. I transferred her to another hospital 700 kilometers away because I didn’t like her medical team. I sacrificed our home and my husband’s job in the blink of an eye. I advocated for her, relentlessly, even when months after months it became clearer we were losing the battle. I was the one to say they should try and save her life at all costs. They called it unreasonable obstinacy, I didn’t care, I called it love.
Of course, in the end, I couldn’t save her. But even then, I didn’t let go. As I watched her slip away, I promised her she would always be my baby. I had kept her alive against disease, against tumor growth, against all discouragements that could be ; I would now keep her alive against death and oblivion. Failure was never an option.
I smile when people complain about how hard parenthood is. Try raising a dead kid. It’s a f-ing combat. I guarantee, dead babies can keep you up at night just like living ones. Try keeping your daughter alive when no one can see her, touch her, hear her. Just try to understand. Everything your kid do by himself, I have to do for mine. Living kids take so much place. If I’m not careful, my silent baby will soon be buried a second time – buried under so many laughs, so many cries, so many cute stories she could never tell and first steps she could never take. I fight to keep her in this world. I fight to keep her alive.
My friend Ryad has a little boy that’s about the same age as Soley. A few months before my daughter died, she came to visit us at the hospital all the way from Belgium, and she brought her son with her. We laid the babies side by side on the bed and they stared at each other.
Gaby is two and a half now, while Soley is forever 11 months. Ryad has been doing such a good job at keeping Soley alive in her home that Gaby is able to recognize my daughter on pictures. You don’t get death at that age. You only know that some friends live further away than others. Recently she bought him a pair of rain boots with ladybugs on them. He didn’t like them and argued they were « girly boots » ; when Ryad pointed out that there were no such things as boys or girls boots, he put them next to my daughters picture and answered mischievously – “ok, Soley boots. Mama, Soley stealing boots!”
This is more than just a cute anecdote to me, it’s a blessing. People usually say the stupidest things when they speak about my daughter, but those words from a 2 year-old made my day and healed my heart. He knows her. He loves her. She is a part of his life. She is still with us. I can relax for a moment. I can take a break and breath. And this is what I need. Not advice on how to move on, or empty reassurance I’ll get a living baby in the end. I need help keeping her alive.
So please, tell me she is beautiful. Tell me you miss her if you had the privilege to meet her and if you didn’t, tell me you wish you had. If you feel like you know her through me, tell me that. Ask me about her, what she was like, what she enjoyed. Tell me you hate cancer. Tell me life is a bitch and it’s fucking unfair. Don’t tell me about another child, rather tell me you understand why my daughter can never be replaced. Don’t try to look for silver linings. When it comes to the death of a child, there are no « at least ». I’d rather have her fighting cancer, I’d rather have her disabled, hell I’d rather have her in a coma than gone. Don’t ask me if I’m « over it », if I’m « better now ». I’m not and I will never be. But yes, I can grieve and accomplish tasks, I can grieve and laugh, I can grieve and still be myself, because cancer didn’t steal my identity. I am more than my grief. But don’t tell me I’m brave, it’s not like I have a choice. Don’t tell me I’m strong, it’s called parenting. I’m still her mother. She is still my child. And you can’t get her back to me, but you can help me keep her alive.
- Love After Loss – Part II - February 10, 2017
- Love After Loss – Part I - February 8, 2017
- Sorry Not Sorry - January 23, 2017
A friend of mine’s daughter still plays and talks to my son who passed 4 years ago. It’s amazing because they were only 2 when they played together when he was alive.
How amazing Sarah ! I love to hear this !
I love when my nieces think of my son, Noah, in heaven. My 4 year old niece recently fell asleep in what was to be my son’s cradle. When she woke up and was asked why she was in the cradle she answered that Noah wanted her to sleep with him. My other niece, age 3, finds coins… mostly quarters, that have no explanation as to why they are there. She says they’re coins from Noah… it keeps him alive for me.
Loved to hear those stories Angela. What a beautiful cousins relationship.
thank you for saying this