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According to the American Cancer Society, around 600 teenagers aged 15 to 19 lose their lives to cancer every year. In 2017, my daughter, Mia, became one of those heartbreaking statistics.
Mia battled illness for four and a half years. Throughout much of that time, even as her condition worsened, I held onto the hope that she would overcome it. I believed her fierce spirit would defy the odds, and that advancements in medicine would bring forth a miraculous treatment to heal her.
When it finally dawned on me that a miracle was not in store for Mia, I shifted my focus to ensuring she experienced peace in her final days. Her passing turned my life upside down, shattering my understanding of what was supposed to be. I was left grappling with the reality of a world that felt utterly incomprehensible. For a time, joy felt unreachable.
Living without Mia was something I had never truly contemplated. When I allowed myself to imagine it – her vacant room and my hollow days – I found it unbearable. Yet, the worst came to fruition: I woke up one day in a world stripped of her presence.
I had responsibilities—laundry, caring for my husband and my surviving daughter, and tending to Mia’s dog and her elderly gerbil, a creature that, much to my annoyance, had outlived its life expectancy by a significant margin. There were countless daily tasks that demanded I function as if a part of me hadn’t been irrevocably lost. Those initial days of navigating life without Mia felt like an insurmountable challenge.
In those moments, I felt an almost desperate need to share my grief with anyone who crossed my path. “Can’t you see?” I wanted to shout, “None of this matters because I lost my daughter!” (By “this,” I meant everything—work, life, the next season of “Game of Thrones,” and so much more.) Sometimes I would blurt it out to strangers—whether it be in casual conversation or an email—because I needed them to know.
My daughter is gone. That reality is undeniable. I am here, but she is not.
For months following her death, I barely worked. I spent my days wandering outside, observing the birds, and searching the skies for any sign that Mia was still with me. I relied on subcontractors to keep my consulting business afloat while I drifted in a fog of grief and numbness.
Most people who knew me were aware of Mia’s passing; I had been sharing her journey online for years. I told everyone—bank tellers, a new acquaintance, potential clients, my dentist, and even cashiers. It often led to awkward exchanges.
Eventually, I learned to temper my impulse to share Mia’s story with every person I encountered. However, I will never stop saying her name. When asked how many children I have, I respond without hesitation: “I have two daughters—one living and one who sadly passed away from cancer.”
It’s likely harder for others to hear than it is for me to say.
While my ability to share Mia’s story has somewhat diminished—which might signal some progress—it doesn’t feel significant from my perspective. Two years have passed, and I occasionally find moments of near-okayness, but the wound remains wide open.
Part of my urge to tell others about Mia and her long struggle is rooted in my disbelief that it all truly happened. Mia was a healthy, lively child before illness struck. She had never been hospitalized, despised needles, and adored swimming and cats. She was meant to thrive.
Before cancer intruded into my life, I was blissfully unaware of how fortunate I was. The assumptions I held about cancer, terminal illness, and grief were naive, to say the least.
I have not entirely emerged from despair, and I likely never will. Some friends from before Mia’s illness have faded from my life, and I can’t entirely blame them. I have transformed into a different person; the version of me that existed prior to Mia’s death has vanished.
I am now a more fearful mother, terrified of losing my remaining daughter, Ella. Every morning as I drop her off at school, I push away intrusive thoughts of a tragedy striking her classroom.
When she complains of a headache or any ache, my mind races with images of tumors. In less than two years, she’ll be driving, and I’ll have to quell my anxieties about potential accidents that plague my thoughts.
I wish for the universe to spare me from further heartache. I long for people to recognize the weight I carry and help me shoulder it. I wish for acceptance of my transformed self—one that will never return to its former state. Grieving parents everywhere share this burden.
These days, I choose carefully who to share Mia’s story with, confiding in those who may remain in my life for the long haul. I do this because small talk or mundane discussions seem trivial now. I am compelled to acknowledge my new reality, hoping that others can accept this altered version of me. Some do. Grief often lurks beneath the surface for many, and finding someone who can walk alongside me in this lonely journey is a true comfort.
That is why I share that my child has died.
This post first appeared on Medium, where you can read more about similar experiences. For further insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource from the CDC.
Summary:
This heartfelt piece chronicles a mother’s journey through the grief of losing her daughter, Mia, to cancer. It delves into her experiences of denial, loss, and the aching need to share her story with anyone she meets. The narrative reflects how the author grapples with her new reality, her fears for her remaining daughter, and the deep impact of her daughter’s absence. It highlights the isolation of grief and the importance of connection with others who understand this pain.
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