Dead. I have
avoided this word. I remember
sitting in my hospital bed staring at the clock for hours waiting to call
someone after Quinn’s arrival. It
would be my sister first. It felt
like an eternity that I was lying there waiting for the world to awaken so I
didn’t have to sit with this information alone. Quinn arrived at 3:38am and I got through to my sister
around 8am. When she picked up, I
couldn’t say the word. Instead, I
said, “We lost her.” I remember
being aware of my choice of words in that moment. I couldn’t say “dead.”
It was such a harsh word with an ugly connotation. “Lost” was softer and seemed to fit the
innocence and beauty of my baby girl more adequately.
Only in the last few days have I begun to come to grips with
the word dead. Not aloud yet, but
in my head and writing.
Sugarcoating her loss with a softer word does not help anything and does
not bring her back. She is
dead. It is true, according to
Webster’s dictionary, that she is “no longer living” and “deprived of
life.” Now the harsh connotation that
comes with the word fits. It is an
ugly, awful, and harsh word that describes an ugly, awful, and harsh
tragedy. The dagger that stabs my
heart when I yearn and ache for her is brutal and painful. Her death was and is so sad. Quinn is dead.