We told Hannah last night. We waited a month and 6 days to tell her, her little sister is dead, but we told her.
We were waiting for her to be able to communicate, rather than just respond to questions, and that time came. People keep asking me how she took the news. I don’t really know how to respond to that question. She took it as well as she could, which is not at all. There is no “she’s okay” or “we’re okay” because none of us are okay.
When we finally calmed her enough, I asked if there was anything in the world we could give her to help her feel better, and she stopped for a few seconds, a tear fell from her bad eye, and she said “Love?”
Norah has known since the day of the funeral. We just cried together for the first time since, the night before last. She is feeling her absence now. She is starting to understand death. I don’t want my little girls to have to understand death yet. They’re so little.
I’m starting to understand that my sweet, beautiful, wild, baby is not coming back. Losing your child hurts from the time it happens, until you die. I know that. What I didn’t see until now, is that it doesn’t get better with time. This is not one of those wounds that “only time can heal”. This wound gets bigger and bigger, every day I have to wake up to the thought, “Judy is dead”. I can’t see her, I can’t hear her, call her, feel her or smell her weird little smell (kind of like maple syrup and stinky baby feet).
I wish I had treasured more of my time with her. I feel like I was always in such a hurry for one thing or another, but I can’t even name one of those reasons now.
This is my view right now, from the bathroom floor of Hannah’s Hospital room
But this is what I keep staring at
She was so full of life. I understand anatomy and biology, yet I still don’t understand how she is just gone. I know what happened, and I could explain it to you in words that would make you think I actually went to college, but I still don’t understand. Life is scary. It just ends sometimes, without any warning. I always thought I would be able to *feel* if my kids were in danger. I always assumed there was a string connected from my hearts to theirs. But I had no idea. In fact, when I got the call at work that they had been in an accident, I thought it was going to be a dent in the bumper of my sisters car, and they would just ride back up to the house with me. My whole drive there, was me worrying how my sister was going to get back home to Tennessee. I didn’t feel them. I didn’t know. I still don’t feel her. This is not what I expected. Losing a child is like nothing anyone can imagine, so please know that when you say to me “I can’t even imagine”, that in my head, I agree with you, and I am beyond grateful that you can’t imagine.