"I have only slipped away into the next room, I am I and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Play, smile, think of me. All is well." ~ Henry Scott Holland
Third Year Anniversary of your death... ~July 17, 2008~
Haven't slept much today. Went to bed at 3:00am and got up at 5:00am. Decided to turn on the computer to check jobs and do other things. I feel extremely tired, worn out and restless, all at the same time.
Today is my baby's third year anniversary of her death. I haven't actually visited the cemetery in a year: haven't been able to since the day I saw the headstone with her name engraved on it and realized that she is really dead. My baby is dead, I thought when I read it. Cried like I've never cried before since she has been gone. But mostly, I cried because the headstone was marking the wrong grave. How could they do that?
I called all the people I needed to call in order to get it fixed; I even threatened with calling the newspapers. They cannot do that to our family, I told them. So the nice guy at the cemetery apologized like a hundred times and had his crew go over and fix it. My children told me that it has been fixed. I haven't been able to go back. Mostly because, following that incident, I sank into the worst depression I have ever faced in my whole life!
I know things happen for a reason, but you are not supposed to bury your children. Yeah, people tell me that, but they have no idea what it's like. Today, I remember the whole experience as one surreal episode, something out of a horror movie. The Twilight Zone if you will. I went through the motions of being there physically, but as I looked around at all the people, I felt like I wasn't even there. I kept staring at the body in the casket, touching it, caressing it, making sure there were no wrinkles in the clothes, that the makeup was correct and still fresh, and while looking at that body I was under the impression that she was just sleeping and would wake up at any time. I wanted everyone to shut up and let her sleep. She was so cold! My instinct was to cover her up with my arms to warm her up. She looked so beautiful in the brand new white clothes her sister had just bought for her. She had white flowers in her hair and her sister had applied her makeup. I kept saying to her, without realizing she wasn't listening to me, that I never thought I would see her in a casket, that I wanted her to fight, but nothing I said to her would wake her up!
These past three years have been the hardest I have ever faced. My whole world has crumbled, the carpet was pulled from under my feet, and my depression immobilized me to the extent of not wanting to leave the house. I became afraid of people. Self-conscious of my appearance, I have felt embarrassed to have someone look at me. Or worse, to stop and talk to me and ask me how I'm doing. How am I doing? I feel like I have died with her, but I'm still here. How is that possible?
To make matters worse, I don't have Jayle anymore. Haven't seen her since October of last year when she was taken to live at her father's. The family hasn't even been allowed a glimpse of her. I have never prayed so hard as I have prayed for that child during this time. I talk to her picture every day (it is my screen saver), and trust God that she is okay-is all I can do while trying to keep the family together. Who takes care of me? I have survived though some strange internal force was moving me, because my external body has not been responding. I really don't know how I pulled it off with everything collapsing around me.
And I can say that I am proud of myself. Yes, I am human and I am here. I have made it this far. I believe the hardest part is over and it's time to come out of the dark. My daughter is definitely gone physically, but her spirit will forever be with me. And although I will miss her forever, I need to live because I am still alive. And there's Jayle, Nadia and Dennis and I gotta be here for them. And for myself.