Over the past year, I've heard a lot of...interesting comments. Mainly coming from well-meaning friends and family, who inadvertently said things that would anger/frustrate/sadden me. I quickly learned to let it go, and on the extra hard occasion when I find myself gritting my teeth, I think about one of the last things my Nana said to me before she passed. "People are going to say stupid things. They don't mean it. Just forgive them." So, that's what I try to do. Let it roll off my back, and gently redirect the conversation.
Lately though, I've been thinking a lot about something I began noticing shortly after Emmett passed. Nearly every relationship in my life shifted in one way or another after he died. For the most part, it didn't bother me, until I began noticing all of the people who were withdrawing and shying away from us. Suddenly, I found myself trying to have a simple conversation, only to notice how uncomfortable the other person seemed. To be blatantly honest, at first this made me really mad! I would go home and rant to Ryan. Sometimes I would cry, hating the loneliness that this journey had brought into my life. Hating the fact that despite the fact that I was trying with every fiber of my being to be "normal", people couldn't seem to have a two minute conversation without getting weird.
After some more time passed, I began to shift my perspective. Instead of feeling angry or sad about the friendships which seemed to be dissipating, I tried to focus on the good in my life. I took note of how, after losing our son, our closest friends rallied around us, and have continually stood by our side. I focused on the new relationships that had flourished in the storm. I began viewing my loss as a great wind that had blown through my life, testing every component that makes up the life of Sara Langford - relationships, my faith, everything. It wasn't a pretty process, and a year later I find I am still piecing my life back together.
If I could change anything about that process, it would be the communication with the friends who have backed out of our life. I would start at the beginning and try to reassure them. I would tell myself to have more patience and understanding. Instead of wasting time feeling angry, I would tell myself to seek out peace. I would tell myself to focus on the good, because even in a storm as great as losing a child, there is still goodness. If I could go back, and have others listen, I would have a few things to say...
Please be patient with me. I am myself, but I am broken. I know you're scared, because you don't know what to say, so let me try to simplify it for you. Just say his name, and don't think it's strange when I want to talk about him. I know my tears may make you uncomfortable, but know that it's not about you. I cry for my son. I cry because I am broken. I know the rawest parts of my heart are completely exposed right now, and that it might feel like too much for you. If it is, just tell me. Don't treat me like a stranger, and don't leave it all on me to fight for our friendship. In case you have forgotten, I am broken. I am struggling, and some days I can barely keep my head above the proverbial waters of life. So, if you don't know what to say, don't try to think of some complex or profound statement. If you truly feel the need to say something, just remind me that you're there. Remind me that you care for us, and for him. Just be there. Show up, throw me a text, whatever - because I care about you, but right now I'm running on about 7%, and being "normal" is just plain hard. I really am trying, but I am broken.
. . .
Maybe someone else can learn from my experience. Or maybe you'll just be like me, and realize a little too late that life is not an episode of Friends. Over the past year, I've learned a new meaning to the phrase, "Quality over quantity." I feel like I've really learned to accept being okay with having a few thriving relationships rather than handfuls of shallow ones. It's a process, and it has been painful, but I'm grateful for it.
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