I so often dream about my niece. Not only at night, but during the day.
Places we’d go, book we’d read, memories we’d make.
Next weekend, I’m hosting a Christmas get-together and I only wish she could be here. The house is decorated beautifully and the love is palpable. Everything else is in place.
We’re decorating cookies, stringing popcorn, watching Christmas movies, hot chocolate; everyone in cozy socks, warm by the fire.
I’m always in charge of everything, whether it be a party or a project, and I think that’s what keeps me from coming apart. Simply, I have to keep it together. I can’t crumble like I want to. Like I deserve to.
No matter what, I feel her absence. That familiar ache that is there every day becomes a million times more heavy on the days that are for most people, the happiest. Every holiday is bittersweet. At one point, I didn’t want to celebrate at all, and didn’t. This clandestine adoption changed everything. It yanked the carpet out from underneath me and left me in a world that never stops spinning.
Every time I make a wish, she’s what I wish for. I dream about holding her, hearing her voice.
My niece is the only person I hurt over.
It is all-consuming and overwhelming. When you’re dealing with a situation pertaining to a child, the game is totally different. The rules, your logic, your sanity seems to go out the window. There is no acceptance, the cycle of grief is never-ending. One step forward, ten steps back.
Christmas is special, but so is every other day that my niece is supposed to be in my life. Her whole family is here and it kills me that our baby is looking into faces of strangers that are pretending. Sold away by our neighbor, there’s no way to sugar coat that.
So as I wait, I write.
I write to survive the ugliness of this whole thing.
This kind of whirlwind is so lonely. Days are busy teaching, nights are seemingly never-ending.
Worst of all, it’s all mental and emotional. It’s not like having a flat tire, getting it fixed, and being on your way. The fix for something like this is far less simple. Even when I was in the middle of the Caribbean, a world away, surrounded by nothing but ocean, I sobbed. Looking out at the water in the darkness of night, the hurt was still there. there is no getting away from it.
Hurt hurts; time and distance are irrelevant.