Every now and then in this journey of loss, one comes to a new realisation. Like today when I was going into the hospital for a physiotherapy appointment and I thought about how much I hated the place. I hated that I even had to go there at all. Every time I see the brown brick building, I am reminded that Zia died, that she is gone and that she is not with me anymore. I look at the window of room I stayed in and I look through the window of the labour ward and time and time again I park in the same spot I did that day in July last year. It’s my local hospital and I constantly have to return there to visit a sick family member or to the pharmacy. Everytime I do, there is a sinking and gut wrenching feeling inside me which I often ignore.
Well today, I realised that this hospital is just a place. A place of many places and It doesn’t have to be such a bad thing. After all it is where I saw her for the very first time, where I held her close and kissed her. It was where her daddy sang to her, her first and last song. It is where I got to spend some time with my precious daughter and when I think of it that way how can that be a bad place?
It is all I have in terms of places to return to and it is where we were together in peaceful and pleasant surroundings. I also realised that the truth is that I carry her birth and death place with me every single day, every minute of every hour. It is in me, I am where she lived and I am where she died.
The negative association with the hospital may take some time to subside but it will happen someday as long as I realise that I cannot hate myself, if I do, I would be disregarding the one place my baby grew and existed.
I am the only home she knew. That, in itself is an honour.