Goodbyes are not forever. Goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I miss you.. Until we meet again.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Thank You..

"Oh, your young. Someday you'll have more children. You'll be fine."

Really? That's comforting. So basically, your saying that if I had other children, besides Isabella, that I'd be fine because I'd have others to replace her? Or that when I have other children this hole in my heart will be gone because, well, I'll have other children. Bella was a person; a beautiful, amazing, and strong person. Tell me exactly how me being young and eventually having children will somehow make me feel better? I know these people don't mean it that way, but it's just getting harder and harder to be understanding. Sometimes I wish they just wouldn't say anything at all.

Patience. Take a deep breathe. Forgive them for not knowing any better. Walk away.
I'm taking this approach for Bella. For me. I don't want to be angry. I don't want to become bitter.

I'm reading books. Any book that has to do with grieving the loss of a child. I desperately need to know how to do this. How to get through it. Anything. Can you believe it? I'm looking for instructions. How pathetic is that? I want someone to tell me that there's light at the end of the tunnel.
I remember when Bella was diagnosed with Spina Bifida. I remember the confusion, the anger, the frustration of not knowing what in the world this was or how I gave it to her. I went home that day and googled it. Spina Bifida. Not the best of ideas. I found some of the scariest things you could possibly imagine. I searched all sorts of websites, and then I came across, the website that made my pregnancy a little bit easier. I found hope.
There were other moms that were going through similiar things: the pregnancy, the ultrasounds, the diagnosis, and the fear. There were parents that had already had their children and they wrote about them with so much love and admiration. They inspired me. I was no longer alone, WE were no longer alone.
I worried myself sick the day they diagnosed Bella, I couldn't hold anything down and I cried so hard that it felt like my head was going to explode. I remember that I didn't want to be pregnant anymore. I thought it didn't matter if I ate or if I'd drank enough fluids. I was just about ready to give up, and then I felt Bella move. I'm pretty sure she elbowed me. I remember snapping back into reality at that moment. There was hope in my belly. Hope of a better tomorrow because of this little life inside of me.
I deal with things by knowing. I always wanted to know what the worst case scenario was first. I always wanted to know everything. I guess this is the approach I'm taking for my grief. Unfortunately there is no instruction manuel, it's simply about learning to live without Bella's physical body. Instead, I've got to embrace her spirit. That beautiful little spirit I was blessed with.

There are many lessons to be learned from Bella. She taught me a great deal in her short time here on Earth. As her mother, it is my responsibilty to grow from that. To live life for Bella. To make a difference in peoples' lives, the way that she made a difference in ours. Occasionally, I still feel a little nudge from Bella; to be nice, to care, and to make a difference.

There are times now that I find myself feeling alone, but I know that I'm no where near alone. Bella is always with me. I can feel it. I have an exceptional set of people that loved Bella and want to keep her memory alive in the same way that I do. And I have you guys. My virtual friends, who have become my shoulder to cry on. I thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart.


  1. Much love sweet friend...We're still here, still praying, still hoping for a better tomorrow for you. You are not alone. Hang in there!

  2. Aurora,
    You are working so hard to find a place in your heart for all of this. You are doing a wonderful job. You will always be Bella's Mom. I can see now how close you and Bella were. I can feel her spirit through YOU!
    In shared grief, Susan