365 Firsts

Well, I did it. I woke up 365 times after my baby died. Each day was the first of that day without him. I have been told that the firsts would be pretty tough, and they were, but in a different way than I anticipated. I found that the anniversary of his death, which happens to be New Year’s Eve, and will be New Year’s Eve forever… A day when people are celebrating, drinking champagne, tossing confetti in the air at a year well spent, and looking forward to the new, I found this day to be pretty terrible. I don’t know if it’s the fanfare that inherently comes along with the day, but I was triggered AF and so very relieved when it was over. I will say, January 1 felt like a vice had been released off of my head, a huge mountain had been lifted off of my shoulders, and, like I could breathe again. It really was a new day, and a new year. Somehow, surviving Owen’s season, which is essentially November 21st through December 31 felt like some sort of accomplishment.

There were things that I did over this past year that surprised me, amazing things like finally becoming an International Board Certified Lactation Consultant. I attended a bereaved mothers retreat, and made some wonderful, lifelong friends. We took some amazing trips in Europe before moving back to the states. I threw myself back into my work, and started growing a strong, social media presence, educating and advocating for things I feel strongly about. My marriage did not fall apart, and I’m actually happy to report that we are as strong as we have ever been. My husband and I very much feel like lone survivors coming back from a war… We are the only ones that know what happened out on the battlefield, and it has made our trust, our bond, and our love, even stronger. Somehow I have managed to get children to school, start working again, prepare mostly nutritious meals, we bought a house that we have been renovating. Things look good.

But I’ve also had stormy days. Hell, the year started with me not even wanting to wake up. So, although I’ve come a long way from that, there are days when the backpack of grief is just too heavy and I have to sit down on the trail.

But I’m learning not to judge myself, to understand that rest is sacred, and that honoring my needs, and those moments is important. I have not written as much as I thought that I would, I started painting, and then stopped. In addition to my grief backpack, I’m carrying around about 30 pounds more then I would like, and I definitely drank way more alcohol this past year than I should have. But I’ll tell you what, this grieving mother shit is not for the weak. It is not for the faint of heart. And for all of the things that I have accomplished there has been laundry, left, unfolded, dishes, left undone, projects left unfinished and even more unstarted. I’m learning to be OK with that. I’m learning not to chase the end result. I don’t believe there is a “light at the end of the tunnel”… I don’t think the tunnel ends. I’m just trying to keep my own light burning so that I can see where I’m going. The old version of me doesn’t exist, I am no longer searching for her, I am no longer trying to get her back. But she is my muse, as I rebuild and become again.