Grief is my Story

I wrote this in October of this year. I was emotional and feeling lost. Writing is my therapy, I wrote this for no one but myself.

But today I’ve decided to share it.

To share my story, with hopes that maybe it could help someone else.

 

Grief is my story.

Several years ago my husband I were trying to conceive. Without fail every month the end result would be a negative pregnancy test. Our hopes were shattered month after month. Everyone around us had no issues getting pregnant, including my sister.

I’ll be honest, even though I didn’t want to feel resentment, I did. It was hard not to. It took me a while to come to terms with it, because why weren’t we pregnant yet? We had a home and full-time jobs, my sister was just graduating high school with the option of attending college.

She had this wonderful opportunity ahead of her, and with a blink of an eye it was gone. I accepted that. My devastated heart embraced her pregnancy. Eight months flew by, she was having a boy, he was healthy growing inside her womb.

Hayden Michael.

It fit him. He was born February 12th 2009 as I held my sisters hand throughout her eighteen hour labor, he was four weeks premature but okay and that’s all that mattered.

He was healthy.

He was adorable.

Only a couple weeks prior my husband and I discovered we were expecting, we were ready for this. Two babies would join our family in 2009.

Only one would stay.

My nephew was at my house often as my sister worked, he was almost eight months old. In the stages of holding on to furniture and walking around as much as he could. He would blab the same few words that he knew repeatedly, he was completely and utterly happy all of the time.

My sister, Amber and I had their lives mapped out.

They’d grow up together, Hayden being only a few months older than Payton, they’d have the same friends and be in the same grade throughout school. They would graduate together.

We made those plans for our children, but it not to be.

On the morning of October 11th 2009 my sister woke to my nephew not breathing. Paramedics were called, he was rushed to the E.R.

They couldn’t revive him, all emergency saving procedures were done.

His life was not to be.

He was one day shy of eight months old, my daughter just six weeks.

I had never felt such devastating pain in my entire twenty-one years of life. The loss of him completely gutted me, it gutted our entire family. We mourned together, we mourned separately and for two long and arduous weeks we awaited autopsy results.

When the report came in we felt relief knowing that we couldn’t have done anything differently, SIDS claims any child usually under the age of twelve months that it wants to. But that didn’t relieve the anger, the heartbreak, the sorrow of not having him around.

Of him not having a life.

He was robbed of his first steps.

His first sentence was stolen.

His first day in school was taken.

His first crush, his first day of high school, his graduation, his chance at love, his possibility of having his own family was all taken in a single blow.

In one second of time.

In one breath.

He will never have that back, we will never get those moments and for that we mourned.

For that we still mourn.

In the deep dark shadows of his death, light did arrive.

It took a long while.

Years.

And when it did I realized my purpose.

You see, his death taught me that life was a very short one. That life was never promised and to cherish every day you receive.

To cherish everyone you have around you, to love hard and remind those people of that.

To laugh so often that you stomach hurts and your ribs ache.

Give so much that people drown in your kindness because you will never know what that one person is facing today or will face tomorrow.

Just live.

My purpose is to write.

I abuse every emotion I have inside of me with words, I take them to paper and use them over and over again.

I pour my heart out on every page that I write and if maybe one person can find some positive in whatever they are facing, if one person can relate to the pain or joy that I write within my words- then my work is done. Then I have accomplished my goal.

My purpose is to be kind.

My purpose is to be thoughtful.

My purpose is to love and grief is my story.

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