A letter to my 2012 self,
I know that everything is upside down today. I know that there is a deafening static in your ears as the realization of what you're experiencing washes over you. Right now, and for the next year, you'll be in the tunnel. You'll have no idea what you're supposed to do with yourself in the coming days. People will ask why you're out and you won't know how to answer. The static stays. And it stays loud. It drowns out any rational thought.
This past week has been a veritable Hell for you. You were alone in that room when the unknown doctor came in and confirmed what you'd known in your heart for quite some time. He stayed for awhile but you didn't hear him once the first sentence left his lips. The static replaced his voice.
You made an impossible decision. You told your babies and they hit you and screamed at you to fix it and give them their brother back. You just took it. You let them pelt you with their little fists and their big feelings and you held them closer, almost as if you could keep them from breaking through sheer will and love.
You held him. You sang to him. You cradled him in your arms for the rest of his life.
Right now it seems that everything from breathing to walking is impossible. It feels like they forgot to pronounce you gone at the exact same time. It's impossible to even begin to imagine any kind of "life" after this...
But...there will be people.
On that first day home, your neighbors, who are also grieving parents, will carry you into your house.
For the first few months a tribe of women will gather over and over again, despite having their own lives, to sit with you to let you scream in pain.
One of those women will literally pick you up out of the snow. And she's still holding on, 11 years after this day.
People will honor his life with kindness and love for others. Hundreds of people.
Your closest people will listen to the pain. They'll hear the stories of these final days and they won't back away. But instead, sit with you in your brokenness.
A friend, and fellow broken mother, will be a lifeline on more days than I can count.
Every year at this time, your "people" will see your fragility. They'll handle you with care and love you in the most beautiful ways.
At some point you'll take breaths that don't crush your soul. You'll reach for others who have experienced this pain and you'll hold onto them as much as they do to you.
You'll still want to leave this world. And you'll explain that you only mean to see him, to be his mother, to want what all mothers want. And sometimes that desire will wash over you with a force that you're sure you can't withstand...
But...there will be people.
Your babies who once pounded your chest in pain, will grow and thrive and look at you with different eyes.
Friends will gather to bring you meals, and a clean home so that all you have to do is to remember and to grieve.
The static will soften and be replaced with a different sound. It will be the voices of those who continue to love you despite your brokenness. You are surrounded with such an overabundance of love that it will almost fill those cracks made in your heart so many years ago. Almost. You still get the odd comfort of your grief. You will remain broken and some days, shattered. But you'll breathe again. You'll even smile. And all because...
There will be people.
