One Year

 

One year. Some say it gets easier with time. I disagree. It gets different. Nothing about losing Kelci will ever be labeled easy. Some say to me that they don't know how I do it. They say they couldn't. The unimaginable happened to me... last year, something I thought I couldn't survive, but I woke up the next morning and the one after that and was faced with "now what"? My child died and somehow I survived (I truly didn't think that would happen). I didn't want to be strong. I had to be strong. You do not get a choice in some things in life, but you do get a choice in how you face them.

To honor Kelci, my family and I chose to celebrate and concentrate on her life and all the joy that brought us. I will never regret that. There is so much about this situation to be sad about, sadness comes without effort. Fighting to be happy in spite of and choosing to live a good life in Kelci's honor, that's hard work, but an effort so worth it. In a grief therapy group I attend I wrote this to grief: "You came because my daughter had to leave, but she is worth the pain I'm feeling. I would have died for her, so you, you aren't as tough as you think you are. I will cry with you, but I will also laugh with you. You will win sometimes, but I will win most of the time, and in the end you will see who comes out on top. I will find a way to deal with you positively, because despite what you think I have always been stronger than you."

Life is a hard, beautiful, messy, magical, challenging, fun, adventure that we only get to live once. Some of us get shorter rides and make the most of them, others get long ones and take too long to figure out that happiness is the goal. I suggest you hop in the front seat, throw your arms up and make the most of this wild ride you are on. Live fully today, because there is no promise of tomorrow.

To my Kelci: You know I love and miss you today as much as I always have. I will ache for your physical presence until we are together again. I miss your smile, your sweet voice, the little notes you left me, I miss your hugs, your laugh and seeing your beautiful face. I miss walking behind you in public and watching in awe as people just stopped to stare as you walk by and you never even noticing it. I miss your text and your goofiness. I miss fighting with you and laughing with you and crying with you. I miss you asking me to borrow money. I miss everything about you. Thank you though for letting me know that you are still with us. I love the little signs you send. "I love you forever. I like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be". It certainly has been a long, strange trip my love, and I'm sure the one you are now on is magnificent. Much peace and love until I see you again.

New Normal

Most people, even the most well meaning, don't understand that I will never truly "get over" the loss of my child or get back to "normal".  Normal ended the second I found out that Kelci was no longer in this world.

Even though I can get through most days OK, and through hard work, I have found ways to find happiness in spite of all of this, there are moments that nothing can stop the flood of tears and overwhelming sadness.  Most people, I've come to learn, can't really comprehend or handle what I'm dealing with anyway.  Unless you have experienced this yourself, a person really can't even begin to KNOW what this is like.  As I've said many times since Kelci's accident, my life, life as I knew and expected it to be, ended, and a new, different, unwelcome one began. This new life is rough to navigate at times, but as always, I continue to do the best I can with the circumstances I've been given.


I often wonder if people truly know how much goes on behind the scenes, behind the smiles, beyond what isn't said.  Do they know that even though I smile, find a way to go on, or a way to function that my thoughts are still consumed with Kelci?  Sometimes feeling to the point of obsession, that I am willing myself to keep her in the forefront of my thoughts, because it would be too traumatic for her to somehow be forgotten.  Logically I know she won't be, but it's still terrifies me to even think she might.

People aren't comfortable with this kind of loss.  They don't know what to say, and they like to be able to say that you are doing good, so I learned quickly to put on a public mask.

It's not fake or phony, I truly do want to live a good life, to be happy, to honor my daughter and her existence here in a positive way, and for the most part I do this.  However, I have also noticed that if I do have a bad day, shed a tear in public, talk about Kelci or the accident, or come across as anything but OK, others get very uncomfortable, very fast. It's easier just to put up the wall.

Most of the time, I don't even consciously think about it. It is what it is, and it is what makes it easier to deal, to get successfully through a day.  If people see me smile, laugh and function normally (to their standard), they can rationalize that I am doing fine.  This though, does make me feel that they have put it behind them and moved forward to a place were I know I will never get to go.

Maybe if living with a broken heart were more obvious, like living without an arm or a leg, the outside world would understand better what I was missing.  However, I suspect most would still act the same, eye contact would be avoided, uncomfortableness would still prevail and just as most would avoid looking at an amputees missing parts or asking about the damage, the awkward silence would remain the same.

To get through, I will continue as I have for nearly a year, to save my grief for the private places and spaces,   This is my personal grief, and like all grief, it is unique. I reserve my sadness for me alone., and I cry more than anyone knows. I have also accepted the waves of emotion that sweep over me as part of my new normal. Living life without my child physically here is doable, but it will never be easy and the pain will always be with me, just as she will always be.

This doesn't mean that I'm not coping well, nor does it mean I'm depressed or repressing my grief.  It means I am doing this, working through this, the best way I can for me.  It means that I know there is no "getting over this", there is only learning to live with this.  It means that I have accepted that my life will never be the same, that I will forever be different, and even though I can function well, help others. say and do the right things and make other people comfortable, I have also accepted that a part of me has been forever broken, shattered beyond repair, and learning to live this way is the only option I have.

It ain't always easy, and it ain't always pretty, but I'm surviving, and that counts for something.  This is a place I never expected to find myself.  Expectations of life as I knew it flew out the window and the window shattered into a million pieces the moment I learned of the accident.  Just getting through each day now, finding a little happiness where I can and not giving up, when that could easily be an options are things worth noting.