They tell you, "You'll have good days, & bad."
I nod, because I know. I know what the aftermath of Kimmy's loss did to me. It changed me. I am changing again. I barely got to know that other version, that in between version of Alissa. That was only around for 14 months. That felt loss in an unimaginable way, was barely learning how to live with grief, but feeling a little more confident each day.
I know that there is bad days. The ones where you stay in bed because dreams are the only way you see someone again. The ones where you know driving in the car means a song will come on and bring you to tears. The ones where you can't look at the date on the calendar because its a reminder of someone not there with you. The personal hell days that you survive just to live another version of it the next day.
I know that there is good days. Where somehow your brain lets you forget for just a single moment. Where a husband can make you laugh, and it makes him sad at the same time, because he hasn't seen that version of you in a long time. The ones where mother nature feels like its giving you a hug, as you breath in deeper than you thought possible. The ones where you notice the happy stories on fb instead of the devastation that is daily life. The ones where you can find the courage to be joyful, not just in the face of loss, but feel truly joyful because you have experienced the opposite in pain.
I know these things.
It doesn't change it.
It doesn't make it better knowing some days will be the hell on earth that you would expect child loss to be. And that some days will be simple relief from that hell. Every morning an uncertainty to which one it will be. And sometimes you get to flip back and forth all day. Its just another thing in this new life that is an unending question. Which will it be next.
In an effort to try and make a milestone less of a slap in the face. I asked a friend if we could plan something in advance. Its the first time Ive made plans of any sort. Motivation Monday started with me saying, "you are not going to cancel these plans," for the entire 45 min drive she took to pick me up. I'm not allowed to drive these days. Another side effect, to the side effects of drugs, which is the side effects to child loss. Right until the moment she got to my door, I was telling myself, I can still cancel. But off we went for pedicures. Something we had become accustomed to during my pregnancy as a once a month treat. I realized that morning that I would have been getting this same pink pedicure this week, anticipating Anna's arrival next week. Now I choose pink as a reminder of her, not waiting for her.
I spent the whole time pouring out my thoughts to my friend who willingly listened. I find, much like and because it is trauma, you want to talk about it a lot. You want to repeat it out loud even though its painful to relive, because its all you can think about. Talking about it makes it real. And she listened. She let me say Anna's name out loud the same as I would talk about Sawyer & Max. There was no judgement, I was simply talking about my child. Though those poor people who may have overheard would have gone home a little more thankful to not be that sad girl in the pedicure chair today.
Because I was feeling so courageous for not canceling a pedicure, when another friend asked me to meet her at the playground a few hours later, I said yes. Well I say yes, then no, then maybe, then I'll only bring Sawyer because he's the easiest, then I'll only bring Max because he needs to run off energy, then both, then none, then maybe no all together again. Every decision I make right now is a none decision. I had to text Brandon, who is in the same house as me, and ask him WHAT DO I DO. About an invitation to the playground 5 min from our house. I ended up asking the kids what they wanted to do, I thought I was a genius for that choice making ability. And when they said no, I felt relieved. I walked out the door, one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. And I enjoyed another hour of spilling the same stories and feelings.
I even ripped the bandaid off something truly hard for a mom who has lost a baby. I held someone else's baby. A baby I saw grow inside a tummy at each book club meeting. And then grow into a chubby 8 month old. All the promised steps of pregnancy and the first year with a baby. All the things I crave deeply right now. I decided, he was a boy, he wasn't a newborn, and I was going to have to do it sooner or later, and sooner is better. So I held him. And I didn't die. It felt that way when I had thought about holding a baby in the days before. And though it was ok, when a dad carrying a 2 month old baby girl in pink ruffles and a bow walked by, I stopped breathing and could no longer look at that half of the park in fear that I would have to see her again. One step forward, two steps back.
It was a good day today. I stood at the bottom of Everest and said, "I own you now, you are mine alone to journey." But at that bottom of the mountain you are reminded how many people you need to get through this journey. My personal sherpa's teaching me how to breathe this new air. My friends who let me do this at my own pace. My family who has supported me all the way to this point, and won't back down now. It is going to be one hell of a journey, maybe Everest doesn't even describe the magnitude of it.
And there is going to be good days & bad.
Today was a good day.
with love, lissa