“You made it. From
this day on, it gets easier.. promise”
Those are my best friend’s words, and they hit me like a ton
of bricks, in a good way. She’s
right. I made it. I might have destroyed my personal finances
(grieving is expensive), my body (are you there, liver and intestines? It’s
me-Lainey), and my mental well-being (scrambled eggs for a brain), but I didn’t
give up. I didn’t make this worse on
anybody else in my family by harming myself, or worse, taking my own life. I didn’t cause any permanent damage to
personal property or otherwise, and I made it through one year without
completely depleting my allotted amount of prescription anxiety meds. On one hand, I’m taking a deep breath and receiving
the gold medal for coping. I’m a
champion at surviving. I feel good about
what I’ve accomplished over the past year and generally feel good about how I
feel on the whole. I know, that's a lot of ME to be concerned over, but really I was worried I would be the one to bung things up for the rest of us along this road. So. Sigh of relief there.
On the other hand, I feel like I’m just opening another door
to another stage of the grieving process.
I wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow and feel a shift in the weight on my
shoulders. Will it be lighter, or just
different? Does that ever go away? Why do you ultimately change as a person when
someone you love dies? Some days I just
feel SO DIFFERENT—but then I guess this is the new normal that everyone talks
about. I don’t feel disconnected or as
if I’ve done a 180, I just feel strange and somehow very, very changed. My biggest
malady right now is that I’m obviously heartbroken that you won’t be in
physical attendance at Michael and I’s wedding, but I have to remind myself you
will be watching over us and smiling.
No matter the amount of analyzing or comparing or wondering we will ever do, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re gone. It will never feel fair, it will never feel justified, and I will never understand. But what I have learned over the past year is a lot about myself. I don’t want to be vulnerable, I don’t want to stand around and cry with people, I don’t want to wallow in the sadness because I do know what clinical depression is like, and it’s a dangerous line to toe. But I’ve also begun to accept that it’s okay to remember the good times, and not just know that I was blessed with them, but to realize I also have started to FEEL the blessing. When I look around and examine the world today, not everyone had the connections I’ve been blessed with. Not everyone’s family has worked tirelessly to make two kids, like Bailey and I, feel seamlessly accepted across all of the family groups. It’s not lost on me that I can be abrasive and cold to people, but I’m still loved unconditionally over and over again. And that’s a very big blessing to recognize. You somehow always talked us into trying to see the big picture, and I think I’m finally coming around to it for this whole mess.
So here we are, at one year.
I hope I someday forget how I handled the last week of your precious
life, because it promises to forever traumatize me—the trips back and forth to
the hospital. The unwavering support,
the ultimate determination, and then the final uncertainty that washed over
everyone on this morning 365 days ago—and the devastation later that night when
the fight was over. All of that: that
was a nightmare, and I hope that part fades from my memory.
But one year on the anniversary of you going to be with God,
I know I’ll never forget your smile, or the sound of your voice, or the videos
of memories that play in my head of your laugh and your quick wit. I’ll never forget the way you loved my dad
and my sister and me. I know I’ll keep
discovering the lessons you embedded in your everyday interactions with
us. Your personality and accomplishments
and temperament live on in the memories, stories, and photograhs-- and none of
that can be erased; things can’t un-happen, your life can’t be un-lived, you
can’t un-exist—and that’s good news for me because that is permanent and solid
and forever.
So, with this milestone behind us, it’s time to continue all
the things we’ve just done for the past 365 days. That’s right, it’s not over--it’s just going
to keep happening. That’s the only
choice we have, and I think we will probably all just carry on trying to live
your philosophy of caring hard for others, dancing in the rain, having faith,
and celebrating everything. I’m going to
keep digging deeper and really try and whole-handedly grab the meaning of love
and life that you showed to us. I miss
you and I love you so much, and I wish you were still here.
