Thursday, June 30, 2011

This week, a year

This post is personal, and raw, and real. It is gaping and ugly. I write it because it is true. I post it to remember it. Because Libby needs to know how much I love her and miss her and need her and want her.

This week has easily been the longest week of my life. I feel like a year has passed in the past nine days. I have cried every single day of the past 9. Most of the time sobbing. There shouldn't be any tears left in me and yet they continue to be there daily. My heart has broken, sunk, dropped, shattered, every day this past week. There should be nothing left to break but every morning I find it whole again, only to shatter once more. Darkness has stayed constant at the corner of my eyes, threatening to overwhelm me. It is thicker than any blanket, darker than any storm cloud, with power strong enough to paralyze. It always stays right at the corner, but ready to take over at any moment. Wishes and prayers constantly go out, from me, from others, possibly the only thing that keeps me afloat and keeps me from sinking.

This week has been a year. Time crawls by. It does not move. Libby's progress seems to stand still, the next step always tomorrow. I wonder when tomorrow will get here. And then I am here. Still 2 and a half weeks away from her coming home, from hopefully the end of these very dark days. I want to fall onto the ground and give up. I want to pull the covers over my head and cease to be for the next 2 and a half weeks. I want this to go away and be a distant memory. I don't want to go through it. How can I? How can I possibly make it through the next 2 and a half weeks when every days seems to be a year, every week an decade, 2 and a half weeks away an eternity? I don't know how I can do it. How can I come home day after day and always leave her behind? How can I hold her in my arms, but she is always just out of reach, covered with blankets and wires and tubes and gauze? How can I watch her cry for food, her stomach empty and aching and continue to pump milk into containers that she cannot have? How can I only see her for brief hours a day and still be her mother? How long can her room stay empty, without her in it? How long can my arms ache before they fall off? How long can I wish this different before time goes backwards and changes, so we never have to go through this in the first place? How long will this take to become a fuzzy memory? It is only 2 and a half more weeks, but it is forever. It is never ending. I am standing still, while the world moves. I am not sure I can do this. No I know that I cannot do this. And I know that I have to. I have no choice. This is not the way it was suppose to be. But this is the way it is. How do I change it?

This week, a year. Next week, another. The week after, one more. And then, maybe, she is mine.


Erica said...

Crying with you, wishing I could help, wanting nothing more than your baby girl in your arms for good. Love you...

Catherine said...

Well said, April. I pray your wait is short, and fruitful.

Anonymous said...

Oh April, I remember your pain well, Gideon was in the NICU for 2 weeks after he was born. It is awful, it does suck. It is not right. That empty nursery is haunting and it is amazing how much tears you can shed in a day. I'm praying for you and John, praying for God to continue to hold you up and get you through another day. God gave me a rainbow in the sky on day 7 of our NICU stint, it gave us such hope that I took a picture of it to always remember. I pray God gives you a rainbow too.

Your Sister in Christ,