Let Me Be Lighter, I'm Tired of Being a Fighter

Angie Smith says in her book, I Will Carry You (2010), "The truth is that to some degree, every day I have here is another day without her.  I don't know when I will be able to see life any differently."

I have been thinking about this quote a lot over the past 48 hours or so. After getting through Mira's 2nd Birthday, my soul sore and tired, but still okay, Christmas took my breath away.  I guess maybe the typical holiday stress combined with being surrounded by groups of people that Mira was so glaringly missing from, and the pain of trying to be okay in front of others, and then failing miserably lead to my downfall.

I haven't caught my breath since about noon on Christmas and I am not quite sure what to do about it except ride it out and keep trying to go about my days until I get my head above water again. I have been hating feeling this way after getting to an 'okay' place recently. It is completely overwhelming and painful in a way I am at a loss to describe.

Could you beam me up,

Give me a minute, I don't know what I'd say in it

Probably just stare, happy just to be there holding your face

Beam me up,

Let me be lighter, I'm tired of being a fighter, I think,

A minute's enough,

Just beam me up.

(Beam Me Up, P!nk)

So, I went back to this quote just to read Angie's words and feel a little less alone and a little less crazy to be in so much pain 2 years after my loss (as Angie said this further down the loss road). 


Her words brought comfort, the kind of comfort that can only come from someone else who has been where you are expressing thoughts so similar to your own.  She goes on to say:

"If you are walking through this yourself or with someone you love, know that every day is going to feel different.  There is no systematic way to understand the process. And I know because I have highlighted it all in books and then tossed them in the trash.  I don't know what tomorrow is going to look like.  Quite frankly, I don't know what an hour from now is going to look like.  And that's fine.  It's not a twelve-step program.  It's life after loss, and it's not going anywhere.  I have to learn to go easier on myself and back down off my expectations because I am setting myself up for failure.  I can't tell you how many times I told myself a truly strong CHristian woman would have done this or that differently.  I get so irritated at myself, thinking, well she didn't have this issue."

Her words are so true.  It is hard to not beat myself up.  It is hard to feel like anything other than a burden/annoyance to those around me, and especially those who love me.  It is difficult feel like a part of the lives going on around me when I feel like I am underwater in grief, especially on anniversary dates and holidays.

I will keep fighting.  I logically know full well I will get back to my okay place.  The psychologist on the palliative care team at CHOP told Joe and I all about the "waves" of grief.  That in the beginning they are nonstop and so hard you can't breathe, but then, very slowly, you learn to tread water between them.  It is still exhausting treading water all the time, but you can do it.  Then another wave comes and it hurts just as bad as the beginning and you feel like you will never surface again.  I can tell you how very accurate this metaphor is.  She promised that even though the waves would never really stop, we would get through each one and they would come further apart over the many, many years.

This is a damn big wave.  Have you ever been knocked off your feet, completely under water by a wave and not even sure which way is up and your lungs are bursting and your mind thinks you may drown? That is this wave of grief.  But eventually your head bursts through the surface and you breathe again.  I know that moment is coming and I will keep fighting for it.

But right now, every moment I am here is one more moment away from Mira.  Every Christmas I have on Earth is one more I do not get with her.  Every New Year welcomed is one more year I exist in, but my child does not. As amazingly thankful as I am for the many kind and truly wonderful things that friends and family did for Mira (and Joe and I) during this time, it does still hurt to be here in the ocean of grief.

I ask that you do not mistake my pain for ingratitude.  I am so grateful for the gifts for Mira or representing Mira, the dedication to her 2nd Birthday Celebration and acts of kindness, the place for her at Christmas, and many many more things.  These are the reasons I continue to fight to live my best life.  And they are the reasons I made it until a few days ago before breaking down. Thank you.  And thank you listening to me try to express my pain.  It helps my heart to put it in words.  And though I feel a little too vulnerable, I have decided to post this anyway (there have been a few I haven't) as sharing my words helps me, and I hope helps at least one other person's as well, the way Angie's words helped me when I am feeling alone and not understood.