The Grieving Process

Aftermath

I stood at the doorway watching this entire scene like I was removed from it. My back pressed up against the cold metal of the door, keeping me from falling to the floor from shock. I felt like I was watching a movie and that this was not part of my life. My life was not supposed to be like this! I was sad one minute, angry the next, and numb. I took in the whole setting of what my eyes were seeing to avoid looking at Amelia's lifeless body. The floor was white, the walls were white. Various medical instruments were strewn on a cart with wheels. I finally forced myself to look at my niece. She was only wearing a diaper, her skin was pale, and her lips were tinged blue. The top portion of her hairline had been shaved to allow an intravenous line to be placed there. An endotracheal tube was protruding from the right corner of her tiny mouth. Then reality finally struck me, she really was dead. Nothing more could be done now. My sister who is a nurse understood medical terminology, so they explained to her the various resuscitation processes, and the medications given to her. The nurse asked my sister if she would like to hold her only child one more time. My sister picked her lifeless body up gently, making sure to cradle her head. Amelia was passed around the room for each family member to hold. I was last person to hold her. I whispered good bye to her quietly, telling her how much I loved her, the dreams that I had for her, how I was sorry that I couldn't have been a better aunt. I knew that my life would never be the same, and that none of our lives would ever be normal again.

The next few days are a blur. My sister and brother in law spent the night at my house. They slept in my parents' bedroom. I lay on the cold, hardwood floor of my den. I felt empty and lifeless, my mouth was parched, and no amount of water, tea, or cola that I drank ended the feeling of dryness. My mom and dad were asleep in the chair and on the sofa respectively. I could hear my sister sobbing in my parent's bedroom. She was asking God to strike her dead at that very second, so she could be with the daughter she had lost. I quietly went upstairs to my room, and opened my closet door. Buried deep behind shoes,books, and various other articles laid a lifelike baby doll that my grandmother had given me for a birthday present. In my thirteen year old mind, I thought that this would alleviate her anguish. I slowly wrapped the doll in a pink blanket, and took it to my sister. She would carry this baby doll around for the next two weeks, treating it as if it were Amelia. I think that my entire family was gradually going insane with misery.

It finally came time for her funeral, after almost a week's wait. Her autopsy had taken longer than expected, but we would finally get to say our final goodbyes to a baby that should've never died. We arrived at the funeral home early to view her body. My sister was going to decide if her funeral should be open or closed casket. When I went to the coffin to look at Amelia one final time, I realized it was not my niece. She had a full face of makeup on. Who the hell puts rouge on a four month old child? Her made up face disgusted me. She had on too much blush, and they had put mascara on her eyelashes. My stomach gnawed at the thought of some stranger touching my niece. I slowly placed my hand on her tiny hand. Her Body was frigid and stiff. No longer was she smiling at cooing at me, or warm sleeping in my arms. She was in an eternal sleep now; the one that leaves you cold, stiff, and rotting six feet under. Her casket was tiny, probably only measuring about three feet across and a shiny white color. The lights in the receiving room reflected off of it, giving it some sort of a weird glow. Then I noticed that there were cherubs on each one of the corners of her casket. This is where my hatred of anything with angels on it stems from.To this day, I loathe anything decorated with angels, because I associate the smiling cherubs with my dead niece in a coffin resembling a clown.

The chapel was a large room with white walls and a cherry wood chair rail. There were two aisles with twenty five pews aligning each side. The pews didn't have a cushion, but they were a light oak color and felt like sitting on a frozen concrete block. I was sitting in the second pew on the right. My parents,sister, brother in law, and grandparents were on the first pew. I was sitting next to some of my extended family, but the feeling of loneliness overwhelmed me during her funeral. As the preacher gave her eulogy, audible sobs were heard throughout the chapel. I guess that people could not comprehend a life that was full of promise was now gone forever. Who knows? Maybe Amelia would have discovered a cure for cancer, or a cure for AIDS? None of that matters now, her life was stolen by something I could have never anticipated.

Grieving, its how you are supposed to come to terms with death; I don't understand the process.In the few weeks after Amelia's death, I developed peculiar manners in dealing with the situation. As a child dealing with something unfathomable, I began a strange routine that I thought would help get me past her death. I would only cry at seven o'clock in the evening, because that was my nightly journal time.I would only allow myself to cry in my room, muffling my cries with my pink and yellow striped bed comforter. The last part of my grief process would be to never cry in front of anyone else. If I wanted to cry, I held it in and would weep alone. Her death was traumatic for me, but seeing my family in such emotional torture hurt me more than her death. My process of grieving helped in some ways, gradually time passed and began to heal the wounds inflicted upon my heart. However, my grieving process was not really mourning her loss at all; it was just suppressing memories and prolonging healing.

I can't write anymore I tell myself. This whole process is useless. It is only refreshing things I've tried to forget for nine years. Even now, the Paxil isn't working as well as it should be, or the Xanax. I feel my breath shorten; my chest heaves rapidly trying to catch the air my nostrils can't inhale. My chest feels as if someone is tightening a belt around it. My arms feel as if they are filled with lead, and the room grows strangely dark. In the silence of the public library, I lay my head upon the pressboard desk. The coolness of the desk eases some of the anxiety attack, but my clothes are drenched with moisture. My hair is dampened from the sweat caused by the anxiety of putting my deepest, darkest thoughts into writing. I bet people think I'm a mental case, coming to the library every day checking out time travel articles, grief books, and hammering away on my laptop keyboard. Sometimes I break into crying fits, I always have a box of tissues with me, never knowing when the urge to cry will strike me. I'm twenty three years old,why do I feel seventy? I glance towards the window, the snow slowly drifting down from the sky. Slowly,it is painting the trees and roads a translucent shade of white. Her birthday is getting close. In less than a week, she would be turning ten years old. My mind cannot grasp the thought that ten years ago, such excitement filled my life, now it is filled with trying to survive to see another day.

Slowly, my family began to heal from her loss. The pain was never really gone, only not as noticeable. Everyday life will help you move forward; your thoughts remain focused on that day's tasks, trying to make it through the day. I wondered about God. I wondered where he was, why he had let something like this happen to my family. Little did I know that eight months after Amelia died, the grief and pain from her loss would be brought back.