It’s been a while since I last sat and wrote something. Not that I haven’t thought about it. I have been spending my time enjoying Oliver. Watching him grow, watching him explore, watching him develop. It has been bittersweet. With every milestone Oliver hits, I am reminded of all of the milestones Stella & Joy never had the chance to reach, the milestones Zach and I never got to witness and enjoy. It’s a strange feeling, being so wonderfully happy and incredibly sad at the same time.
Rainbow baby is the term used for a baby born after a loss. It supposed to signify the rainbow after the storm, that after something stormy and terrible happens, there is beauty and light. Here’s the thing, the storm never ends. The storm wasn’t my daughters’ birth or their death , it is everything that comes with that. When you think of a storm, you think of a one and done moment. It comes, its terrible, and then it goes away. Stillbirth never goes away. Losing a child never goes away. Grief never goes away.
Sometimes I sit with Oliver in his nursery and tell him about his older sisters. I know he doesn’t know what I’m saying yet, but I always want him to know that he’s not alone. He has two guardian angels watching over him. Their pictures hang around our house, right next to his. Their names are tattooed on our arms. Their ashes sit on the mantel in the living room where spend most of our days. Stella and Joy are always with us, in some way or another.
Recently there were articles circulating about an orca whale named Tahlequah. For 17 days and over 1,000 miles, she carried her dead baby across the sea. The other orcas in her pod did not judge her, did not leave her, did not rush her. Instead, they helped. Carrying the baby at times so Tahlequah could eat and rest. The articles said “when she was ready,” she finally let hr baby go. The truth is, she wasn’t ready, she will never be ready and she will never let her baby go.
Like Tahlequah, I had to physically let my babies go. I had to walk out of the hospital after 3 days, empty handed. I left them in a bassinet, together, but without me. I wasn’t ready. I can assure you no parent ever is. But I knew I had to. On December 4, 2016, I left my daughter bodies behind, but I never really left them and they will never leave me.
I survive the storm because I have support. I have people who do not judge or leave or rush me. They allow me to grieve. They allow me to feel. They allow me to be whatever it is I need to be in that moment. They were there for me then and they are there for me now, because beyond the rainbow, the storm still goes on.
