It’s kind of apropos that you are currently reading a story about lost things right now. Totally fiction in which the lead character can see and feel the losses of everyone around her. Awesome book and so you think about your losses, from little to big – keys, mom, fur babies, friends, and even directions. Yes, losing your way easily because you have no sense of direction isn’t always fun. You end up taking long detours that aren’t always an adventure. You resist going down the pathway to talking about death. Maybe because it used to be so foggy. And now that you’ve stepped out of the fog into the light, that sense of loss has dwindled. Although grief hits at the oddest moments. A smell, a texture. Even a TV show reminds you of that person. And you wallow, let yourself sink, then rise back up to go on.
You remember James first birthday and the family came to celebrate. You were anxious and angry and had no idea why. Maybe because you hadn’t really processed the idea you couldn’t have any more kids. You could, but the risks would be too great and you didn’t want to leave hubby with two children and without his wife. You experienced congestive heart failure during labor and your husband was given a choice – You or the child.
Fortunately, you both survived, a bit battered and battled scarred, now healthy and strong. It was a bonding experience for your husband who hadn’t anticipated being in charge of this tiny little human being, responsible for feeding him and changing diapers. Pressed into duty by the NICU nurses, he was thrown into fatherhood without you. You didn’t get to see your son for a couple days until hubby talked the nurses into bringing him up to the ICU. Those first few months after James was born are pretty foggy as we lived moment to moment; healing, living and loving our son.
So you fret and fume, unsure of why you are melancholy. James is your miracle child after all. When hubby was seventeen, he’d gotten shocked while working on an amplifier, and thrown across the room. You went into the marriage with the thought there was a very real probability, he would be sterile. Happily, you were wrong.
Each year is bittersweet, perhaps because in the back of your mind, all those dreams for your family had died. You’d always thought you would have five or six. A gaggle, a troop, a party of five. Maybe you had been grieving and not aware of it. Grief, you learned after your mother died, ebbed and flowed with the tides. Some days are foggy, others bright and clear. You can’t imagine having more children now. Your little family unit, the three of you living your lives to the fullest and blessed with your miracle child, who is almost 18 now and surprises you every day with his wit and insights.
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