he emergency section of St. Joseph’s Hospital. Beige walls lined with unimposing chairs closed in on me. Doctors came and left. Family members surrounded me. Police officers and a priest came to speak with me. Each one repeated the same mantra, “It’s not your fault”. Unbeknownst to them, this seed of guilt was planted in my heart and spread its dark tentacles into every corner of my soul.
My daughter, Elena, was twenty-two months old when she passed away. I hadn’t seen it coming. The day before she passed she’d chased bubbles. I tickled her until she squealed with delight. I read her a book on my knee, tucked her in, and gave her a goodnight kiss. The next day, she was gone. She slipped through my fingertips like sand. I thought her life was permanent, a fact. She would outlive me. She would have children someday. My world came crashing down, fragmenting at the seams. How could her little courageous heart stop beating?
From the moment of conception, a parent’s life changes form; new duties, dreams, and responsibilities. An evolution into a completely new identity with an innate instinct to protect their child. After suffering their devastating loss, there’s a sense of failure.
Losing a toddler is a unique grieving experience. Elena was growing healthy and strong. She was learning her alphabet and numbers. She would say “I wuv you” and sing with me. Losing her also meant the loss of her future. A thousand tiny moments I wouldn’t have traded for the world.
In this day and age, with such advances in technology, losing a toddler is so rare that people can’t help but wonder how it happened. Every time someone asked me “how”, it was as if they were asking me to relive my deepest trauma for the benefit of their curiosity. My depressed mind told me they wanted to know if I was the one to blame, but the truth is, my judgment was clouded by grief. When someone asks, it’s more than okay to say “I’m not ready to talk about it yet” if that’s the case.
During the first few months of my grief journey, I joined grief counseling, and grieving parent Facebook groups. I felt as though no one could relate to my grief. Most people I came across had lost adult children, miscarried, or experienced prolonged illness with their child.
I felt isolated and stigmatized at having lost a toddler. I kept asking myself, “How could I let this happen?”. I met other parents who’d lost children decades prior who’d say they felt as though it were yesterday. Everyone’s grief journey is unique to them. Every bereaved parent is bonded by the shared experiences of grief, guilt, and love.
No matter the age of a child who passes, each parent has some kind of guilt that torments them. More destructive than grief, guilt tears one apart until shreds of the heart and soul remain intact. It’s important to understand that our children come from us but do not belong to us. A parent shapes their child’s destiny, but can’t control it.
To begin healing and fully embrace life one must let go of guilt. It seems impossible, or even disrespectful at first, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. After losing Elena, I asked myself, “How can I go on without you?”. It felt like my life stopped, and if I moved forward it would be away from my life with her, a betrayal. I resented others for celebrating holidays, for laughing, for living, but I know now that my grief was in control, not me.
There’s a formula I follow to make it through each day. Hope, faith, love. The trauma of her loss is the same, the grief is always there, and there is a way to cope.
A. J. Cronin once wrote, “Hell is the place where one has ceased to hope”. Hope is the tether that keeps me going. I am learning to tell myself “It’s not my fault” and live alongside my pain. I find hope in the little signs I believe she sends me, like a ladybug on a cold winter day, or a bible reference when my grief has a hold of me.
Faith feeds my hope and hope feeds my faith. Spiritually I have faith that she is with me every day and knows the effort I put into honoring her life. I have faith her soul still exists, that she is at peace and beyond all pain. She knows the immensity of my love for her and the immensity of my pain.
Leaning on the support from my local church has helped me find purpose and meaning in life, but it isn’t a one-size-fits-all cure. Regardless of one’s personal beliefs, the message remains the same; faith is the opposite of anxiety, and hope is the opposite of depression. By finding ways to strengthen the former, you will defeat the latter.
I am learning to love the person I am, and the mother I will always be because of her. Grief doesn’t go away in time. Guilt doesn’t magically fade away. As I evolve during my grief journey I am learning to forgive myself. I honor her memory daily and share my love of her with those who are still living.
Her life has inspired artwork, poetry, and charity. Her love has bridged broken relationships and brought together communities. I am grateful for the time I had with her and the love I share because of her.
Though my heart is breaking daily, I am not broken. I am not healed, I am healing. I am grieving, I am not my grief. With hope, faith, and love I will embrace another day.
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