I sit here nine years later, watching the golden fall leaves fall slowly as the breeze moves through my parents’ woods. I can feel the sun’s warmth across my face, and I’m surrounded by the sound of my dad’s oxygen machine. My dad is in hospice, and he will be leaving us soon. I know it’s such a strange feeling, I hope he meets Berkley, and they sit under the massive oak in the golden grass field I have seen her sitting under in my dreams. He has also had many dreams about her and sees her very vividly in his dreams. Life is so strange, and there are so many things we just don’t understand or at least don’t understand yet.
It has been nine years since our daughter was alive inside me. I could feel her movements, and we were one. A few nights before she passed away, I was lying in bed for the evening. Settling in for the night. Waiting for her evening wiggles as my body settled for the first time during the day, she would always get very active. That evening she gave me such an amazing experience. She stretched and I could she her perfect little foot outline pressing against my stomach. It was the only time I had ever seen this with all of my children I’ve carried. It is still such a special piece of her I get to think about to remind me that she was alive, she was ours, and no matter how short her little life was she was our baby girl.
As time has passed, the pain has changed, and you don’t feel the immense pain that once consumed you. You can laugh and sometimes talk about our daughter, who died in such a matter-of-fact tone that people don’t know how to react or respond. That doesn’t bother me, nor even register on my radar. I love talking about our daughter. We have four children; we have three we are lucky enough to raise, and one we hope we get to see again.
Knowing it’s the 22nd, I can feel it in my body; my mind is elsewhere. I am back in the hospital. It’s 2 am after a car ride, and my body shakes uncontrollably because I’m so scared something is wrong. After testing in labor and delivery they send us down to for an ultrasounds. She wouldn’t say anything to us about the results. Then our doctor walks in, and we know. She says she’s gone. I run to the bathroom to throw up. I’m in shock. How can this happen? Is this real? We call our parents at 3:30 am. Tell them she is gone. I can’t imagine what it felt like for them to get that call, either. Just writing this, I can feel the pain rise and my heartbreak for all of us again.
It was a full day of labor before I was able to take a break for the evening. Then we would start again. She was born on October 24th and we were able to spend a couple of hours with her. I still remember how amazing she was. I carried her longer than all of our other children. She had more hair than our other children, she looked just like her siblings. They all have the most beautiful lips. Our doctor even said that each of our other children, as newborns, have Berkley’s lips. They do, they have her magic, her beauty, and our family’s strength.
I think raising children and being so open about having a sibling that passed away, about our pain, and how strong we are has given them unprecedented understanding. Knowing that all families are different, we can’t control what happens in our lives, but we can choose how we grow from our pain. We choose beauty, happiness, and being the best versions of ourselves. We can speak our truths and talk about things that make others uncomfortable. Sometimes, talking about the hard stuff allows others to feel like they are not alone. At the end of the day, we are all people. Connection is one of the most important aspects of life.
I know that Berkley’s death was a catalyst for change in my life. I am one strong ass woman who knows her worth, and once you’ve survived a death of a child, there is NOTHING that you can’t overcome. I have an understanding and compassion for others that I couldn’t have had without enduring the pain that we experienced. I am not highly religious, but I often think of the verse that says to forgive them for what they do not know. Sometimes, you can’t understand something truly until you have endured, experienced, and hopefully grown from it. I know I am always seeking growth and working to become the best version of myself.
I am grateful that I live in a time when we can speak our truth, talk about the hard things, and share the beauty of our daughter. I hope others know that they are not alone in their pain and trials, and I hope they find growth within themselves. Allowing ourselves to feel the pain and use it to be our catalysts.
Surviving The Storms 