Twenty-Four Weeks. Again.
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I am twenty-four weeks pregnant. I was twenty-four weeks pregnant with Baby when Dad died. Of this time, I remember so much and so little. The waiting. The cursing. The contractions, innocuous but existent, that came from stress and sadness. I am having those contractions now too.
I miss him. Especially now. Being here, pregnant again, carrying life forward, at once makes the grief keener and cleaner. Feeling my little girl tumble and rumble inside me reminds me – physically and psychically – of a time not long ago when I was so scared, but also so strong. We all were.
Feeling my little girl tumble and rumble inside me also reminds me of Dad’s words, uttered impishly in his final chapter: I am beginning to believe in the afterlife. I believe that there will be life after me. These words, words that appeared on Baby’s birth announcement mere months after he left us, buoy me. And I can here it now. The tear-soaked but joyful laughter, roiling and real, that came from us, his Donnelley women, when he said this. His humor was divine.
I am twenty-four weeks pregnant. Again. Full of new life. Missing old life.
Dad, you were right. There has been, and will be, so much life after you. I hope, I know, that you are able to see this life, and smile.
**This is among the first of my snack-sized posts. For the next while, the plan is to keep my words to a minimum so I can spend more time reading yours. If you are curious about the genesis of this plan, click HERE.**
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Whom do you miss? Does your grief sharpen or soften depending on where you are – physically and emotionally – in your life?
Everyone struggles and...
Here I’ve been sitting for almost four hours waiting for your words and thinking: “Whoa, my post must be so sad, so depressing, that no one wants to touch it.” (Hello, Insecurity.) Alas, it turns out that the comment function was not working the first time I posted. (Thanks to those of you who alerted me to this!) So, here I am. Posting again. Eager for your words, as always. But now I have another question too. An interesting one, I think. Are you more inclined to comment on happy/uplifting posts or melancholy/vulnerable ones?
(If you tried commenting earlier, I do hope you take a second and post again…)
Definitely more inclined to comment after a vulnerable post. The happy posts always make me assume that the writer must have her act together waaaaay more than I do, and therefore doesn’t need to hear from mess-in-yoga-pants me. The vulnerable posts – no matter how ‘big’ the blogger – are the chance to say ‘hey, we all feel that way sometimes.’ It’s a chance to connect with a real-er person, maybe.
Hey there, I am way past having children at the age of 51. My father died when I was 21 years of age after a two-year battle with cancer. I experienced every step of the dying process as did he.
Yes, my grief sharpens or softens depending on where I am emotionally. Recently, at a crossroads in my career, I kept feeling my deceased father nearby. I even met a woman in my knitting group who knew my father and had spent time with him! It was so weird having all of this happen at the same time. I also visited a well-known and respected psychic. She said my father and my grandmother (to whom I was especially close) were my guardians. Through a channeling, they assured me they were nearby and reminded me to count the blessings of my life. As I have aged, the idea of afterlife is definitely on my mind and I am sure of it. The psychic knew things about my family that she could not have known otherwise. I am much more aware of connections in a way that I never could have been unless I had lost loved ones. Oh yes, they are smiling and helping me along my life path….
L – Welcome to ILI. Thank you so much for your words here. It is good, indeed heartening, to know that I am not the only one for whom grief ebbs and flows. Your experience is amazing and arresting – that you have felt your father’s presence at particular points in the recent past. I love your confidence that your loves ones are smiling and helping you along. Again, an uplifting thought. Thank you.
I was crying as I read this post….I can’t imagine how you feel right now…
I do know that this time of year is hard for me, Christmas time. It will be 10 years this December 26 that my grandfather passed away. I was incredibly close to him and he was more like a father to me than a grandpa. We did everything together and he spoiled me rotten. I was shocked when we got the call that he had passed in the early morning hours of Dec 26….he was so young…..People always say that time heals all wounds….I am still waiting for time to heal me….I have faith that it will get easier. It is just especially difficult this time of year.
So hang in there and keep your faith. I will be praying for you….
It’s funny, I don’t find this post sad at all! I mean yes, loss is sad, but it is inevitable, for all of us. What’s truly sad to me is when you can become paralyzed by a loss, but this post is about how there is in fact a way forward from it, at least to me.
Interesting because I don’t find this post overly sad either. To me, this anniversary of sorts is a reminder, yes, a reminder of a tough time and intense sadness, but it also makes me aware of the very afterlife about which Dad joked. Life is all around us and does march forward. I also am amazed at how my body, how I am physically feeling now at this stage, forced me to recall the emotional landscape of a difficult time…
Aidan, your snack-sized posts pack a punch!! how do you do it??
I didn’t find this post depressing, either. I mean, it’s sad, but more than sad, it’s touching. poignant. it pierced right through me. not sure if that helps answer your question, but I like posts like this.
lots of love and continued healing to you.
I discovered I was pregnant with my first child the morning that my grandfather died. I remain so very sad that my children never got to know him, but I take such comfort in that strange, miraculous circle of life. From your words, I know you do, too.
I miss my Dad too, and so wish he could know the little girl who shares his name, his ability to charm a room, and his tremendous ability to sleep!
I have thought more than once though, that our dads must be out there in the cosmos together, the cosmos that fascinated them both, sharing a drink, a laugh, some crazy philosophical thought and a toast to all the wonderful girls they had around them. Even in one meeting, I always felt that they would be fast friends.
And I do think your dad is right, there is most certainly an after life…we will be amazed by the ways our girls come to know their grandpa’s from the memories we share, the pictures we show, and the stories we tell. Frankly, I think O must talk to him in her sleep, what else could she be doing in her crib for all of those hours
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it was so good to see you….i miss new york and my girls there already!
This comment means so much to me. I love the idea of our fathers being out there somewhere together toasting the good lives they led and the big ideas they brewed. I also love the idea that our fathers will live on in our girls. I see it already. So good to see you
Sending you lots of love Aidan. I miss my Dad too. Everyday.
This post struck me because, for you, this “time” (24 weeks) isn’t really a time, so much as a phase. I think about anniversaries like this in terms of a time of year, a date. Your dad passed in the summer, and here we are in the first throes of winter and his memory is asserting itself because of the stage of your pregnancy.
I haven’t experienced loss as you have. But I know some day I will. And I think that in many ways I’ll be more prepared for it because of your reflections on it here. As always, thanks for sharing your experiences with us.
Aidan,
I love your snack sized posts! I also love when you write about your dad. Thank you for sharing.
You have an amazing way with words…this is such a fantastic way to remember your father.
2 kids and another on the way? How do you do it? I can barely handle the one that I have. Barely.
I miss my mom randomly. There are times when I feel completely overcome with a desire to call her for no particular reason except to talk. I lived 3,000 miles away from her for most of my adult life and that was the foundation of our relationship – telephone calls on Sundays when Dad was at work for 12 hours.
This year, however, I will miss my Uncle most. My only relative that I’ve shared holidays with regularly due to distance. His absence will be deeply felt.
Your words – and those of your Dad – have me crying a cocktail of bittersweet and hormone-induced tears. Thank you for sharing the significance of this moment with us. xo
I was newly pregnant (I think 13 weeks) when my grandfather died. I know that it’s not the same as losing a parent, but I remember thinking that one person dies as another lives. Very profound thoughts indeed, being pregnant and having a loved one pass on.
My thoughts are with you as you mark the occasion!
Melancholy, yes. But the beauty of the post shines through. It’s bittersweet, but more on the sweet.
I don’t think this is a sad post. I love moments in time where there is so much emotion — happy, sad, combined — because that, to me, is when life is most REAL and vibrant and tangible. Enjoy your moment. Use it to feel your dad’s continued presence in your life. He sounds like such a remarkable man. How lucky you were to have him; how wonderful that so many will be able to tell stories about him to your children. What a wonderful “after-life” indeed. (so excited for you!!)