Severed

Almost seven months have passed since Freja left us. Somehow, I've been getting up (almost) every morning for almost seven months without her. Somehow, I've been breathing for almost seven months without her. Somehow, the world has continued to turn, the sun rises and sets, and the seasons change - without her. Somehow, I've been able to find moments of joy in watching my other two children learn and grow. Thank goodness for them. But no, I can't say that life has just "gone on......" as most people would like to think. No, it's not that simple. I feel that I am still there with her, like I was seven months ago. Although a big part of me is glad that time is passing, I still feel that I am there with her like I was, seven months ago. It's strange to watch everybody around me go on with their lives, and I'm still there in those moments trying to breathe in every second I spent with my daughter, over and over.

I really don't know how this much time has passed. I can't believe how quickly the weeks fly by, one after the other. What happened to October? Where was I?

I remember at first, when I was caught in that fresh grief which I was sure would crush me to pieces, I begged for time to pass. "If only I could fast forward a year," I thought... Maybe, just maybe I could get to that 'place' that I had heard of so often from those who had walked this path before me. That place where the pain still resides, but somehow becomes easier to live with.

Whoever came up with that quote, 'Time heals all wounds,' needs a reality check. I know these wounds will never heal, but rather I will become used to living with them much like an amputee who has lost her legs. At first, that amputee will try to get up and walk, and she will stumble and fall. Again and again. Over time, even though she might find a way to become mobile again and perform basic, every day tasks, she can never escape the fact that she is missing a very significant part of herself. Only, I feel she has an advantage over me: A very obvious physical reminder of her injuries and pain. Others, even those who don't know her, can easily decipher her struggles when they look at her and are more likely to provide compassion and support. My only physical reminder of my daughter which I carry with me daily is not seen by others; the badge of honor I wear across my stomach, the thick rubbery, bumpy line of red angry scar tissue that once provided my child her traumatic entrance to this world.

And now she's gone.

And nobody can feel or SEE this pain but me.