What Grief Looks Like: 3 Years In
Grief, three years in.
What it looks like.
It looks like not being able to fall asleep after trying for two hours and getting up and sitting on your couch around midnight eating a cold donut from yesterday's Sugar Shack run.
It looks like having experiences more regularly that surface old memories - but unexpectedly. And sometimes they're the really, really hard memories. Not just the really good ones.
It looks like knowing in your deepest being, confidently, that you're a family of four, but only looking like a family of three. Increasingly wondering if anyone will ever know that there's one more, just not here with you. Wondering how often - if ever - you'll get to hear his name.
It looks like remembering what you went through, as if for the first time, now that you're a little bit removed, and recognizing the deep, actual trauma that you experienced. And then grieving for yourself through all of it, all over again, except as almost an outsider. At least with a new, father removed, perspective
It looks like realizing you're still a month away from his birthday - which is both his earthly and heavenly - and wondering why it's already so hard. Or why it's still so hard, every time.
It looks like looking ahead to friends who've gone through this, but before you and wondering - will they understand me? Am I doing this right? Or am I still going to perpetually feel like the only one who goes through this cycle of hard dates and hard memories and hard times?
It looks like hearing friends approach the week of pregnancy where you received his diagnosis and flashing back to what it was like that day, in the chair. But it also looks like breathing a sigh of relief when they get the healthy report a few weeks later. Because I've finally gotten to experience hearing those words too. And I know what that's like.
It looks like quietly grieving - crying when the lights are off into your pillow, or mentioning his name and that you miss him to your husband when you're the only ones awake and you're sitting in the stillness of your living room, resting after a long day. It looks like him saying he's having a hard time, too, and not being surprised. Because even though externally you process it so differently, that love and loss you feel is the same.
It looks like making new friends and constantly questioning when - if - you should bring up the fact that you had a baby boy first. He's your oldest. It also looks like wondering if old friends are tired of hearing about him - if they're all still wondering if your lived-out-worst-nightmare will become their own nightmare turned reality. Like wondering if they think it's somehow contagious.
It looks like flipping through pictures and smiling and crying, all at the same time. Because he had perfect cheeks, but you still want to kiss them.
It looks like subconsciously having thoughts that start with phrase like, "Next time we have to plan a baby's funeral I'm going to..." or "If the doctor comes back with test results that reveal our baby is very sick, we'll..."
It looks like learning how to carefully craft sentences so as not to leave him out but also to describe how you're doing now that you're spending your time caring for another child, for the first time, even though she's your second.
It looks like questioning if it will always be this hard, if you're crazy, if you're normal, if other people have felt this way, too, this far out. Or this soon? Which is it?
But it also looks like this.
It looks like reminding yourself in your deepest lonely feelings that God is with you - behold, the dwelling place of God is with man: from Eden to eternity (Revelation 21:3) - and knowing that that actually matters to you and comforts you.
It looks like speaking his name confidently when you get the chance and even telling strangers about him because you no longer question if you're really a mom, because you are - and he made you one - and he's yours.
It looks like not going a day without thinking of him, often with a smile in your heart over the thought of his sweet self.
It looks like friends who have lost who can encourage you - because community can exist for those who have lost children, and you've found a place where that is growing.
It looks like sharing his story in places you'd never dream of, in hopes that you can encourage one more mom that she isn't alone, and that her baby's life matters.
It looks like resting, trusting, that God will carry you through - on the days where it feels okay, but also in the hours where it feels impossible.
It looks like one thing for me and another thing for another person, all processing and loving and grieving for our children in unique ways.
Grief is messy. It's complicated. It's lonely. It's personal and unique. But it's also shared and it's normal. It's a part of my life that is beginning to feel like an old companion but it's new enough that its waves still knock me off my feet every once in a while.
Three years in. Where has the time gone? And how much longer?
