A New Thing

It has been said that grieving parents have two time frames, "before" and "after" the loss. There is a lot of truth to this for me. I think about things that have happened in the past, or see a photo of myself and my husband and I think "oh that was before" or "that was after." I define moments now by whether they happened before the bottom dropped out of my world, or after. I find myself feeling very sad for the girl of before. She doesn't know about the after.

Now that I have entered the after, there are all sorts of new things I am discovering about my grieving heart. When Owen first died I was very disoriented. The sadness hadn't even come yet. I think back to that time and even though I cognitively knew what happened was a sad thing, I didn't feel the deep sadness right away. In order to feel sadness you have to acknowledge what happened which requires a level of processing that my brain wasn't allowing at that time. It felt more like being abducted and sent to an alien planet where I didn't understand what was happening around me, I was fearful, anxious, and out of place. The only way out seemed to be to shrivel up and disappear. It felt like I was being gutted, tortured, held in this purgatory-esque place where everything hurt. Breathing hurt. I had to remind myself to eat. To just stay alive. Everything was triggering and the sensory overload was intense. Anything other than pushing "yes, I am still watching this show" on Netflix was too hard. Looking back, this was most certainly shock. Admittedly, my previous understanding of shock is an acute reaction that lasts hours or days at most, but I now know that I was in shock for much, much longer.

After shock came sadness. My brain slowly allowed me to have more thoughts, allowed me to retell the story, allowed me to focus in small bits, on what had happened. Once I stabilised in the after, more feelings came. Sadness dances around with anger, despair, numbness, shame, hope, and love on a daily, hourly, and sometimes minute by minute basis. Now, I function pretty well. I smile. I laugh. I do enjoy some things. I am getting back into my work and I am studying for my boards again. I am triggered less. I'm busy with house renovations and interior decorating. For the most part, I am grounded now. I am not in shock and I am not disoriented and I am not fearful.

But I am a new thing.

I am heavy. I am tired. I've learned that even on days when I am not actively sad (crying, laying in bed, looking at photos of Owen), if I suddenly get hit with a wave of exhaustion it's her. It's grief. She makes me yawn and feel like I haven't slept in centuries.

I also have what I describe as loud days and quiet days.

On loud days, grief really comes for me. She hits me like a huge wave, drags me under and tosses me around, leaving me breathless, bruised and exhausted. I have learned that these waves pass and that allowing them to take me all the way down is important. I am not afraid of these waves because I know that they are impermanent. In a weird way, I have grown accustomed to them.

Most days grief is quiet. She lays dormant, hibernating deep down in me. I am always aware that she is there. I never forget. This is the grief that I am not yet used to. This is the heavy grief. This is the grief that I am not comfortable with. This is the grief that has settled into my bones. It has tethered itself to the fibers of my insides and taken root deep in my being. I would not describe myself as an unhappy person, but I also no longer identify as a happy person either. These terms are too simple a description to encapsulate my essence now. If my ability to feel joy was previously 100%, I would say now it is more like 75%. So even in my most joyous moments, that full joy only reaches the new level. This is the grief that makes me still feel out of place. As I go about my day I wonder if people can tell. Can they sense that somethings wrong? Do they know that I am missing part of myself? There's an insecurity that comes with grieving this type of loss. A sensitivity and a level of self care that must be prioritised. I think it's on my quiet days that I miss him the most.

Owen would be about 7 months old now. I should be carrying him on my hip but I'm not. All I can I carry is my love for him. I can carry his memory. I still don't feel like "healing" is the goal for me. Can you heal a wound like this? I dreamed for this baby, carried him in my body for 9 months, birthed him, fought for him to survive, and then had to let him go. That's not something you heal from. I still feel that the best I'll be able to do is carry...

As I carry my love for Owen, I will carry this grief with as much grace as I can as I walk this path that was not of my choosing.