I know I am hormonal. I know we are quickly approaching the time of year when Emily first got sick. I know I will see her again. My brain can think quite logically about all this. But my heart hurts, and for some reason,
my heart always wins out over my brain.
One of the most difficult aspects of grief I’ve had to contend with are the flashbacks. The other day I was holding Garin and nuzzled down against his little head. Despite the fact this little guy has very little hair, I was immediately transported to the days I spent burying my face in Emily’s mop of brown hair as I held her. I could do nothing but stand there and weep.
In fact, of late, it has taken very little to bring me to tears. I know much of it has to do with the fact that there will always be one less, no matter how many more children I have. The fact that the world does not see her does not stop me from seeing her all the time. The flashbacks are no longer as painful as they once were and the tears do not drown me for hours as they once did, but they are still strong enough to stop me in my tracks and make me wonder for a moment in time how I will ever continue to go on without her.
That is one strange phenomena of grief. You can be sailing calm seas, feeling at peace with your loss, and then suddenly be tossed into a raging river of emotion that nearly drowns you. Sometimes you are prepared for it…like the day I first drove past the hospital where Emily died. Sometimes you are not…like when I nuzzled little Garin’s head.
Every grieving parent I know finds their child’s memory is never far from them. I hate that each minute that passes is another minute without her, yet, I must continue to focus on the fact that each minute that passes is another minute closer to her. Yes, the waters are rough here, but someday I will cry no more.