Tell Him I Might Need A Hand

It has been almost a year since I gave birth to Mira and watched her take her last breath.  That does not feel like it is possible.  How could a whole year have passed since I last held my daughter?  Those of you reading this that have lost a child are familiar with this surreal feeling.  Those of you that last held or spoke to your child minutes, hours, or even days ago probably cannot even envision what it would be like to go a full year without them.  I hope you never fully understand this feeling.

This last year has been hell, to be quite honest.  Parts of it have been worse then others, and I’ve tried to talk about those parts as Joe and I have walked this journey.  These last few weeks have certainly been some of those “worse” parts.  I think most bereaved parents agree that the hardest times of the year are anniversary dates (birthday, date of death, etc.) and Christmas time.  I don’t know if it is better that I am hit with both at once (with Mira’s date of birth and death being exactly one week before Christmas) so I don’t have two overwhelming times of the year, or worse because Christmas is that much darker for me.  I can’t answer for sure, because I have not experienced it any other way, but I can say it certainly sucks. 

I have been thinking over the last day or two about some things I have learned along this grief journey that I want to write out. Some things I learned right away, but most took many, many months to learn.  Most I wish I never would have had to learn, some lessons I am grateful for though, despite the fact that I would trade all the lessons in the world to have my sweet girl back.

I have learned that joy and sorrow are not black and white.  They are not polar opposites that cannot exist together.  The joy of loving my daughter and the sorrow of missing her live side-by-side in my heart every day.

I have learned that letting go of pain does not meaning letting go of love.  When an entire relationship has been full of love and pain tangled together, it feels like if you let one go, you will lose the other.  Even if logically you know this idea is false, it is so hard to feel in your heart.  The pain may always be there, but as I slowly, slowly, let it shrink back, the love grows to take its place. 

Unfortunately, I have also learned that the pain will always be there. I may only be one year into the life of a loss mom, but I have the great fortune of being a part of a network of loss mothers who share their wisdom.  And I know the pain never fully ceases, but does become bearable as the years pass and as you commit to doing the work of grief.

And, yes, grief is work, I have learned.  Very hard work.  It is not sitting and waiting for time to pass and feel better.  It is actively working through the pain and finding the desire to heal when you just want to give up.  It is being honest when people hurt you and trying to teach them how to help the beavered.  It is giving up time and money to attend counseling and lay all the darkness out in the open and ask for help. 

I have learned that even after doing your best to tell people that you just don’t have it in you to be the one who reaches out while grieving, some people, actually most people, will still say, “call me and let me know if you need something.”  Or, “Tell me what you need.”  Or, “I’ll wait to hear from you.”  They say them because they are nice things to say and grief makes them uncomfortable.  I have learned who I can depend on to just tell, “things are bad and I need you” and they will be there.  I have learned to feel unending thankfulness towards them instead of guilt for needing them.

I have many more lessons to learn and I am sure I will have to learn some of these over and over again.  I miss Mira with every cell of my body.  The wondering about if, at one year old, she would be walking yet, wondering what her first word would be and when it would be, and wondering who she would be plague me daily.  Hearing updates about children near her age strangely fascinate me and feel like a knife in my heart at the same time.  I will keep pushing through this healing journey to honor my daughter, but I think the next few weeks will be survival mode.  And I have learned that survival mode is okay sometimes.

I'll see you on the other side

If I make it

And it might be a long hard ride

But I'm going to take it

Sometimes it seems that I don't have a prayer

Let the weather take me anywhere

But I know that I want to go

Where the streets are gold

'Cause you'll be there

So if you're up there watching me, would you talk to God and say,

Tell Him I might need a hand to see you both someday

(George Straight)