Dear Ella,

I don’t know if I have the courage to be honest right now. In fact, I know I don’t. I am consciously blocking thoughts of you out of my mind…because I fear my worst fear happening all over again. Does this make me untrue?I feel so cheated, and ill-equipped to cope with the life I have been given. I don’t know when it happened, but at some point I hit, or thought I hit “pause” on my grief button. I entered a strange survival mode. Survival mode is a lot like living like a robot. I wake up each day and force a lonely emptiness on my mind, as I will my consciousness to a barren and wasted mind-scape of nothingness. The first thing I see everyday is your cloud hanging above my bed, then I see the dress you never wore, and the quilt that never kept you warm. I see, but the eyes of my heart are dead and unregistering as I begin to will the pain, acceptance and even reality away. I build my wall of resistance and I try to defy my grief by convincing myself it is better to feel nothing. Numb. I’ve become numb after growing so weary of feeling every little thing so intensely. The pain of feeling constantly judged, the pain of feeling like I’m never enough, the pain of my pain going unrecognized, validated or even spoken of. I have grown so tired of the pain of not having my should be almost one year old baby girl here with me. Death denies me my motherly right everyday, would you fault me for wanting to deny it back? My pain and tears have been replaced with numbness and fear. My mind oscillating between the two as I try so very hard to feign indifference. I don’t know how to function when my only frame of reference for being a mother is birthing and burying a dead baby.

And I think to myself, Ella…I wish I could have heard you cry. But then I realize how selfish that is, and that your first breaths were not cries–in fact I’m sure you opened your mouth and either a song came out, or a laugh. Not here though. Why is it that the thing we do after we draw our first breaths is to cry? It seems sometimes that there is nothing more to life than that first cry. These walls and this “get through the day” mentality will all come tumbling down in a matter of time…with the birth of your brother. I see the tidal wave of hope and also of renewed despair and grief. A wave that will haunt me for all that we’ve lost again..but that will also soothe with new life. I hate living in this almost realized paradox of life and death. Soon the floodgates will open, and my heart will be open again to feel the intense love for another one of my children. I know I cannot keep it out, and I do not wish to–but for now it’s all damned up. I am broken. I am surviving. I have lost track of how many times I have spoken to the silence, and to your dad “I just want both of them.” I want to have my little Ella, and I want my little prince. I miss you Ella…and I know I am going to miss you in new ways that I didn’t think were possible when Beck is finally here. I am so scared to miss you more…but I want to. I am afraid I will not be able to stand what is coming…so for now I wait and watch fearfully and numbly…I know that this will all change as the new waves of joy and grief are coming. 




6 thoughts on “Numb

  1. This is exactly how I have been feeling lately. At 28 weeks my first born son was stillborn this past August. Thank you for your beautiful words. It touched a place in my heart where I could not find the words to describe how I have been feeling xxx

  2. I know EXACTLY what NUMB feels like. I pray ever so strongly that melts away with the arrival of BECK or anything else for that matter. If YOU stay NUMB “too long”, it will take much time, great effort & a lot of help to come back to YOURSELF. Just speaking through personal experience for what it is worth.

    Love YOU ! YOUR look AMAZING ! See ya Saturday.
    Aunt L.

  3. You don’t know who I am, I am just someone who started following you over the summer when I heard “Climbing Clouds.” I too lost my first born in May of 2012, her name is Brielle. I recently had my second daughter Ellie Mae in August if this year. Grief opened up a much deeper wound than I ever thought it would. Some people say I should focus my energy on Ellie, but just because I have another daughter here doesn’t negate the fact that the other one is with Jesus. I pray for you, your husband and your precious baby boy. Thank you for your raw and honest feelings that are poured out in song and on this blog.

  4. I’m so sorry you had go through something so much more painful than I could ever imagine. One of my best friends went through the same thing when she lost her son at eight months pregnant and it was the saddest thing I have ever witnessed. She now has three beautiful children and is very happy despite it all. You will be an incredible mother to Beck. And I imagine you will have a much stronger, more special kind of love for your son than most of us get to experience. I hope writing about gives you even the slightest bit of relief. Stay strong – you’ve already made it through much more than the rest of us.

  5. You are an incredible, sensitive soul! It touched me so much, I’m still 20 years old, and maybe I never experience these feelings what you felt/feel, but I am sending my love to you and all your family and everyone you have been loving, please be OK and have hope in all of us!
    With Love,

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