On the Oddities of Grieving

Grief is strange.  There is simply no other word to describe it.  It hits at odd times, in ways you do not expect.  Sometimes, the things that set you off make sense, but other times, there is simply no rational explanation for how you are feeling.  Every day is different and you really can't prepare because you don't know what is going to happen.  Sure, you expect sadness and difficulties on the "big" days--birthdays, anniversaries, etc.--but there's no way to know what will set you off, no way to know what things will make you feel as though, without them, you cannot function.

I have been going through Patrick's things and have had no trouble deciding which clothes to keep and give away--except for a few things.  Oddly, the things I can't deal with right now are things that were 24-month clothes he was given but never had a chance to wear, so they still have the tags on.  In theory, there is no sentimental reason to keep them--they aren't family pieces Mira wore, and he never wore them.  So, why can't I part with them?  Also, his bedding set--comforter, sheet, bumpers, bed skirt, diaper holder, curtain, clothes hamper--I have no attachment to any of it, except for the comforter.  Why just the comforter, when Patrick never even slept under it?  Whatever the reason, my current dilemma is whether to give all of the rest of it away without the comforter, or hang on to it until I am ready to part with the comforter so I can donate it as a complete set.

At the same time, Phil and I easily decided that we will turn the nursery into a playroom/family library.  We have had no trouble giving away car seats and strollers and bouncy seats and various other bits of baby paraphernalia.  I cannot fathom what the difference is, but I am trying to honor my feelings and just putting aside those things with which I am not yet ready to part and, hopefully, in time I will either understand why I need to keep them, or be ready to let them go.

Then there are the grief triggers--things that set you off that you weren't anticipating.  Things like the crinkly paper at the doctor's office that Patrick used to love to roll on and tear up to hear the sound.  The smell of a different deodorant than I usually use, which I bought in Detroit because I ended up there without my kit bag.  The party supply catalog that comes in the mail advertising all the necessities for Patrick's first birthday party.  The Amazon.com recommendations to purchase baby items because I have purchased them in the past.  I have no doubt that Mira's trip to the cardiologist in two weeks will back tons of memories and feelings because we were last there only days before Patrick went back to Detroit for the last time.  When you are grieving, life is like a Michigan road after a rough winter--full of potholes you don't see coming, can't avoid, and might put you out of commission for a few days.  And it's not going to get easier.  Next April, and indeed at least once a year for the rest of her life, we will have to take Mira to Detroit for a cardiology visit and will have to experience the hospital and see all of the doctors and nurses again.

Even so, there are things that bring me comfort--like sleeping curled up under Patrick's fleece froggy blanket, listening to "Happy," reading through the notes people left at the visitation and funeral, watching the videos of him on my phone, and looking at the amazing picture of him and his sister above the fireplace.

I don't understand and certainly can't describe or explain how my heart can feel so full and so empty at the same time,  All I know is that I love my baby boy.  My life is both brighter for having him in it, and duller for his having left it.  I will forever be caught in the duality of gratefulness for our time together and frustration and anger at how short that time was.

I am also caught between wanting to shy away from all things CHD and knowing that I have to keep fighting because I still have a child with CHD.  I find myself crying myself to sleep at night, fearful that her next trip to the cardiologist will reveal that her pulmonary pressures are increasing, meaning that the medications aren't working, which means a long, slow trip toward right heart failure and the eventual need for a heart/lung transplant.  I reach over and stroke her hair, snuggle her close, give thanks for our time together, and try not to borrow trouble.  But, with the wounds from Patrick so fresh, the trips to the doctor so frequent, and the medication reminders every day, it's a struggle.  Like everything else, all I can do is take it one day at a time, one hour at a time, one breath at a time.  In that way, grief seems a lot more like everyday life and feels more manageable.  Here's hoping.