My life Depends on This

When Taylor died a huge part of me died. Taylor is gone. She no longer exists on this earth. I can not see her. I can not touch her, smell her, hear her, feel her. Well meaning statements like, "she is here with you," "she is your guardian angel," etc. make you feel isolated, remind you that you are alone in this. There is just nothing to say. For she is gone. Period. And a huge part of me is gone too. Dead. Just like my child.

The grief is too big. You lose your mind. Your ears pulse and you are deafened by sound of silence in your being while alternately wincing at the stabbing pain in one or both of your eardrums. Your eyes are open, but you don't see. Your mind swims, but you have no coherent thoughts. Your body is heavy, too heavy, but your arms and legs are weak. And your heart races. And you shake.

And this happens throughout the first year. And the second. And the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. And some things trigger it. And it increases. And you can't stop it.

No one "sees" what your are going through, for it is not visible. You appear perfectly intact. Everyone else has moved on. Even those who were profoundly affected by the immediate loss have gotten over it. They have a "new reality." And actually, so do I. And that new reality includes debilitating grief and anxiety, worry and fret. And fear. Of re-losing your mind. Your fragile mind that you have really never regained. You cling to the tiny bits of what you think are real.

and your heart beats out of your chest.

and your hands become cold and shake.

and your legs weak and ineffective.

you must remember to breathe.

you can not move.

the world spins.

and you

snap.

I can't even continue writing. Because what comes next is almost even more terrifying. Your surviving child, the ONLY thing you have left, is now rushing to a hospital, chasing an unseen helicopter carrying her own 48 hour-old baby to a NICU in heart failure. I mean really...... REALLY? My child, my grandchild, my life.

And you think, OMFG, there is NO WAY this can happen to my child. Over my fucking dead body will my child lose her child.

OVERMYFUCKINGDEADBODY

It took me over six weeks to realize that my life depended on Luna's life ~ for Hayley's life depended on Luna's life ~ and my life depended on Hayley's life.

She is perfect!

Tuesdays are my afternoons with Maya. February 25th was no different. I raced out of work to spend as much time with my bug as the sun would allow. I had barely had my third squeeze from Maya when I got this text from Hayley:

I was so excited, but Hayley was convinced this was going to be a long labor, one she wanted to do primarily at home with Clayton, her doula Sarah, her best friend Tiffany and me.  We texted back and forth for a few minutes. I was ready to come then and there, but Hayley wasn't so sure it was time yet. 

So I took Maya for a walk to the park, our favorite place to go together. A bit before 5 we headed back home. When we got in the door, I told Ulli about the text from Hayley but that I hadn't heard anything from her in about an hour. A few minutes later my phone rang. The ID said Clayton. I answered quickly, very excited, and said, "Hey Son!" But the voice was female, and all she said was, "Get to the hospital. Quick!" click.

I jumped in my car and headed into heavy traffic. I texted Clayton back and asked if Sarah was there yet. The response was "Not yet. 9 1/2 dilated." Wait. WHAT? "How do you know that?" I asked, but there was no reply for several minutes. I then got a text that said, "They're not letting us in the room just yet, they're just moving them out of triage and into a room." I don't know when or how I figure out I was talking to Tiffany, all I remember is the freeway opened up and I did 80 on the 210 to the 134 and just as I pulled into the hospital parking structure I got this: "She's here. Perfect." WHAT???? Like mother, like daughter (I had Hayley within 10 minutes of getting to the hospital.

photo by Tiffany

Luna Leigh Margaret Hughes
February 25, 2014
5:44 p.m.
7lbs, 6oz. 
20 inches long

photo by Hayley