I hate this damn day. I never know what to do with my emotions, or which ones I'm supposed to have for that matter. I know, I know...I can "feel however I want to feel." But that isn't always easy. In fact, by the time one of these "days" gets here, I'm usually to the point that I'm climbing OUT of the hole. It's the days leading up that slay me. I usually try to avoid work during this time and give myself ample time away. Several of my coworkers can probably tell you that I failed to do that this year. I had an entire 12 hour shift where I was literally just trying to remember to keep breathing. Once I stepped outside the hospital, the floodgates opened. And god did I need that.
It's been a particularly bad week, in terms of my grief. For some reason, I always underestimate the pain before it sweeps me under. It literally feels like someone is holding an open flame to my chest, while I'm trying to simultaneously recover from knocking the wind out of myself. It's crazy how physical the pain was, is, and will continue to be.
I've had to continue being a parent this week, despite my inability to breathe. Sometimes that's a good thing, and sometimes it just isn't. I know a secret that not many parents don't know. You can say it a lot, as a parent. Hell, you can even think it. But you can't KNOW it, until you know it. This is the secret....You can't live for your children. You can't. You have to find other reasons to make yourself move, or not move. And this isn't one of those, "spouse first, then children" rants. I don't believe that either. You have to live for you. You have to MOVE for you. YOU are your only guarantee. Now, although that may sound morbid to many, it's actually been the most freeing lesson I've ever learned. I know for a fact that the people in my life are borrowed. When I watch my children in a sport, I don't care how many points they make, runs they score, or stats they accumulate. I'm legitimately grateful to get to witness their movement, their smiles, their friendships. And I don't feel obligated to make sure they achieve THIS or THAT. Not at all. I'm just here for the ride. They're pretty cool little humans, and I'm glad I get to be the one they come home to at night.
The PTSD triggered by these specific days is deafening. I can literally hear nothing else sometimes. I can feel, smell, hear, taste every moment. There is a new movie coming out, and of course the timing of its advertising couldn't be better...it's about a "miracle." I'm sure it will be very popular and people will bring their tissues, and have a good cry about the boy who essentially drowned and was then prayed back to life. I know this is what sells, and that no one is going to make a movie about the boy who had thousands praying for him and still died. Where is the blockbuster in that story? It isn't there. But I can tell you it's real. It may not be pretty, but it happens all the time. It is incredibly difficult for grieving parents to hear about how prayer has saved someone. In fact, it borders on cruelty, not intentionally so, but cruelty just the same. Now, don't get me wrong, if my kid had lived after thousands of prayers went up for him, I'd be preaching at every church in town. But that didn't happen. We had love. We had support. We had faith. And we buried our son. And it isn't a "story" to me. It isn't a blockbuster hit that I'll go watch and forget about next week. It is real. And it hurts. It is loud, and it's silent. It burns and it cuts in ways I could never adequately describe. Does it make you a horrible person if you're super excited about seeing that movie? Of course not! But it does make you a lucky one.
Today, my children are literally everywhere. One daughter is competing in a basketball state tournament, and loving every minute. Another daughter is watching a play with her Grandma who knows very well how much the spoiling will mean to her today. Still two other daughters wait for me in an orphanage, a whole country away. I'm taking my oldest son to several of his own basketball games today. He's fifteen so he smells terrible...comes with the territory...so I've already washed his uniform in order to get it ready for yet another game tonight. And while I guess that could annoy me some days, today I'm so grateful to get to watch his clothes tumble around in the dryer. The fact that they're there means he is well enough to do something he loves, and the fact that I often have troubling deciphering between his laundry and his Dad's now, means that he's grown enough to make that distinction difficult. And I'm annoyingly grateful for that. Because, one set of clothes will never come through my laundry again. I will never, ever forget the day that the last mickey mouse shirt went through the dryer. And while the big moments are certainly present, it is these that cut me to my core.
I have to be a mom today. I have to go through several motions I don't want to, and although I know the choice is ultimately up to me, there are moments that feel very forced. Sometimes I can talk and laugh in the crowd, and sometimes the walls are too close, and breathing becomes my only focus. I choose to enjoy the moments for which I'm grateful, while also honoring those that burn.
Today means a lot of things, and this year is no different. Although our lives change and move with time, the significance of this day and that last breath have remained the same. Easton Scott Zanger, you were, are, and continue to be so many things to so many people. I'm infinitely proud of you for that. I'm going to need your help today getting through the moments. Please hold me when I struggle, as I did you, six years ago today...
