Year three. Learning.

Year One - Blur.

Year Two - Drowning.

Year Three - .....

I am six months into year three of this new life. The child loss life that is. Halfway through. When I started this page my promise was to keep it real, raw and nothing but honest. So here it goes.

I am currently in a season of my life that is BUSY. We have major life transitions happening on top of our normal busy. Our oldest is preparing to leave for college. Our youngest is in speech therapy 3 days a week and will be tested for Autism in August. Our girl, she lives on the volleyball court which meaning lots of running with practice, lessons and games.

In between juggling this we are planning our largest foundation event to date, while in the midst of launching a new project that may (fingers crossed) change infants lives.

Am I busy? YES.

Am I exhausted? HELL YES.

But I am not complaining. This is life and we are ALL busy. We ALL have things that come at us and pile up in different forms. In a world that never hits the pause button (or even the slow motion button) I know that I am preaching to the choir about chaotic lives.

However, in the midst of it all I had a moment yesterday that of course, hit me out of left field. One that took my breath away and to be honest, paralyzed me. It was a pain and a feeling that felt as if it were two and half years ago. I didn't know what to do but crawl into my bed and let it take over.

I was pulling out of the pharmacy. I had just picked up my anxiety medication because, yes after two and a half years of my son dying I still need them. Along with an anti-depressant. And that’s ok.

As I was sitting there, waiting for the traffic to pass and pull out I heard a voice from the passenger seat I hadn't heard since December 20th, 2016. It said "Mom, can I PLEASE go see Knox really quick before I go back to school."

My oldest son had a doctor’s appointment on this day and we were just leaving the pharmacy after picking up his prescription. Knox was at daycare. He was leaving for vacation later in the day wanted to say goodbye to his baby brother before he left.

My answer? No. You need to get back to school, you will see him when you get back. I cringe at the remembrance of my words. I hate myself for the last goodbye I denied him.

What if? What if I would have taken him? My baby was still alive when he asked me to go. What would that have changed? Everything? Nothing? Ugh damn you what if’s.

Like 100 ton of bricks had just fallen on my heart I lost it right there in the car.

With grief, time passes and life continues, but it is always there. It hides and lurks somewhere in our darkest spaces. If we keep ourselves busy to the point of exhaustion we hope maybe it goes away...

It doesn't though.

Year one was a blur.

Year two I was drowning.

Year three, halfway through, I am learning.

I'm understanding I now sew together the tapestry of my life with two strands of thread simultaneously. One of love and one of grief. If you look closely you may see one thread more prominently than the other at times, but both always present.

I am learning the give and takes. The ups come with the downs and the downs come with the ups.

I know when I fall silent, disappear from those I love, I need to take the time to let it hit me.

Let it in.

I need to let the warm tears run down my cheeks.

I need to let the loss and pain in. I need to remember every detail about him.

You cannot feel or appreciate joy and happiness by continuing to push away the grief. I know when it’s building now and I have to let it be. I have to let it have the space it needs in my life instead of pretending it isn’t there.

Year three. Learning.