There is still a part of me, a larger part than I would like to admit, who yells in my head everytime someone pretends to understand what it was like. Someone who thinks that because they've experienced death they know what I went through. There's a person in my head that screams:
"No, you don't understand. This was my child. She died. I named her. I felt her move. I told her I loved her every day that she lived. She lived in me. She died in me. I went through labor knowing that my child was dead. The first time I saw my daughter's face, she was dead. The only time I ever held her in my arms, she was dead. I didn't get to plan a birthday party or a wedding or a graduation party or any of those fun things, but I did get to plan her funeral. That's not normal..."
I know that lots of people go through lots of things. On an intellectual level, I know that what happened to me and to my daughter and to my family isn't that special. But there's still that loud selfish part of me that just wanted to yell at the world, that just wants to try to make people see how horrible and dark and macabre any of that was to go through...and is to live with.
With every passing month, passing year, it fades from people's memories. And there's a part of me that still, everyday, is amazed that I'm still going on. That I'm managing to get up everyday and live my life and be a normal person. It still harder everyday then I can understand or explain. When people don't acknowledge it or don't notice it, I just wish I could make them feel for one second, just one second in their life, what I feel and what I felt and what I will continue to feel for the rest of my life. If they knew how hard it was, maybe they wouldn't pretend to understand.
And the thought makes me feel very selfish