Dealing with loss.
I lost my daughter in 1982.
Emily Anne Elizabeth was a full-term Trisomy 13 baby. She lived 18 hours and 31 minutes — just long enough to experience nighttime, sunrise, and daylight. My heart shattered.
I longed desperately for a baby, and 1 year and 9 months later, Gregory Michael was born.
I once thought that if I’d had more time with Emily, the grief might not have been as sharp. But I learned that wasn’t true when Greg died of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma just 17 days shy of his 25th birthday.
Today, when people ask how many children I have, I say, “Three — one living.”
After Emily’s death and Greg’s birth, I told people I had two boys. Saying I had lost a daughter brought awkward pauses and looks of pity. I hated watching people struggle to respond to what they thought was a simple question.
The wound of losing a child is deep, bittersweet, and mine alone. Others grieve for my children, but no one feels it exactly as I do. Dealing with loss has no end. It just changes its flavor.
Some days, the loneliness of loss is heavy. But I carry pieces of them with me always — their light, their love, their memory — living on inside me.
