Two months ago today, I held my daughter in my arms for the first and last time.
It's hard to believe that it's already and only been two months.
Looking back, I feel amazed that I survived those two months, especially the days immediately we after we received the worst news that parents can hear -- that our daughter had died before she breathed, of no known cause. I was in shock, unable to feel my grief, to cry, to wail for my loss. I felt strangely normal.
And yet, looking back from today, I can see how dark that time was. How afraid I felt, how alone. I can see that every moment, every movement was torture, even though I couldn't tell in the moment. From today, I can see how hard it was to breath, how each inhalation was a desperate, gasping clutch at life. I can see now that I breathed like a drowning person. That I was a drowning person.
Sometimes -- most times -- I long to go back to those days. My daughter felt nearer, and my husband's grief was more obvious. I wish I could stay in the hospital cradling my daughter's body forever. In spite of the pain all around, I felt safe there.
But every so often I want to live, live into the future, even though I cannot see what the earthly future could ever hold for me now. Because if I keep living, then although I am moving away from my daughter's death, I am drawing closer to the Life everlasting with our Father, and with her.
That is what I am living for, two months later.