It's funny how something as simple as a typically over commercialized holiday can bring out fresh waves of grief. Instead of thinking about the flowers, candy, and trinkets, all I could think about this weekend was how if Emmett had lived, this Valentine's Day would have been the only "first" holiday he and Ella would have shared. It almost sounds silly, but for me, it was (still is) a big deal. These milestones don't go unnoticed. Instead, they have this way of bringing up some really painful emotions.
We're also closing in on Emmett's first birthday. Lately, that alone has nearly brought me to my knees, on more than one occasion. Logically speaking, that's a bigger deal than Valentine's Day. Somehow though, it's the little things that are really getting me. I've found that it's usually these seemingly less significant things that some of the biggest waves of grief reside. Maybe because real life happens in all of those little, insignificant moments. Real life is thousands of tiny moments, strung together, and knowing that life is continuing on, without our son...it hurts. At least, that's how it feels to me. With that, when all of this started, I quickly learned the only way to get through the it, is to go through it.
Feel all the feels.
Ride the wave.
Try not to drown.
Saturday was a rough day for me. I've touched on my issues with anxiety before, and I sincerely hope to write more about it in the future (even writing about it is a process in itself). This weekend though, I felt the full force strength of my anxiety. Instead of trying to ride the wave of my grief, and instead of merely observing the pool of grief, I dove in headfirst, and allowed myself to be pulled down into darkness for a moment. (Or, truthfully, a couple of hours.) Honesty hour moment - I wound up in my bathroom, having a full blown panic attack. I'm talking laying on the floor, hyperventilating, sobbing - the works. I'm not even sure what triggered it, I think just my general thoughts about Valentine's Day and Emmett's birthday. I've been having more flashbacks lately, remembering all of the details of his birth, and feeling the endless guilt of, "I should have done more."
Can I rabbit trail for a moment? (This happens when you write at one in the morning...) If I could offer any advice, or encourage you to do anything, it's this: don't live in regret. Especially don't live in regret when it's a situation where you truly could not do anything more. You are enough. You did enough. If you're like me, and you've lost a child, know this: you did absolutely everything you could for that sweet child. You nurtured them, cared for them, and you love them still. You did enough.
These are things I say to myself, not only to the person or people who might read this.
Try to go easy on yourself.
Remember, you did the best you could.
(These are the sort of things that you look at and say, "Duh," but when you live the day to day of grief, it's all too easy to lose sight of them.)
I will try to hang onto what I know: to get through it, I have to let myself go through it. It's messy and painful, but the end result is worth it. The journey brings healing, and if I will allow it, it can bring restoration. I look back in awe at this past year. (Has it really already been a year?) I know the road is still long, but I can look back and truthfully say I can see the healing that's taken place in my heart. It has been unbelievably painful, and I know there's more to come, but I'm so thankful that God has worked good out of the worst circumstance in my life. Even though I'm sure to have further moments of weakness (especially in the coming weeks), I know He's still there, quietly cheering me on, holding me up, and healing my heart, just like He has done for the past year. That's something special. That's the sort of thing I choose to hold onto and find hope in.
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