One year ago today I watched my daughter die in my arms. I couldn't fix it, I couldn't save her. I have struggled along for a year. I have watched Lillian grow and felt the pangs of something that is missing. I have gone through milestones and holidays, I survived her birthday. But this pain and sadness enveloped me more and more as this day approached. I work hard to make sure she isn't forgotten, and to help others who are going through the pain of losing a child. But now this day has come, how can I help me myself. I am angry, it is unfair, why my baby? I am sure I will make it through somehow, I have no choice after all. I will hold onto the fact that I am lucky. How lucky I had such a special spunky, active little preemie. And how grateful I am that she is no longer in pain.
I wonder if she means anything to other people. I wonder if her story has made any difference whatsoever, or if my fear of her being forgotten has just turned me into a crackpot.
Perhaps for today everyone can pretend I haven't turned into a lunatic. Say my daughters name, don't ask me to get over it, don't tell me to look at Lillian, don't tell me she is in a better place. I would love to hear a memory, or that she was cute, be outraged with me, I don't know. I miss her, I feel it, and today I am unable to pretend that everything is ok.