I'm Not Sure How to Tell You

I've been holding off on posting because there have been unexpected shifts on my journey. So much so that I felt nervous to tell you about it. I assumed that this blog would forever contain posts laden with tears, crafted from excruciating pain. A space where I could help a fellow grieving parent put words to a horrifying event that is practically impossible to articulate. That through my voice and story, these parents would feel heard and their village would at least get a sense of what it's like for one's worst nightmare to materialize.

That was my vision for this blog, and it feels like I have accomplished those goals by sharing my grief journey from the first 3 years after losing Kamila. I still feel called to do work for the villages of grieving parents. A dear family friend recently lost her beautiful boy Josh. I reached out to her and promised that I would hold space for her pain and not try to tell her how strong she is, or how Josh is in a better place now. Our conversation took off with a beat you would run to. She shared that she was shocked by how many platitudes she received, and we both agreed that they start to feel like nails scratching on chalkboard real fast. Later she reached out to me about collaborating on some sort of document about what to say and not to say to someone who has lost a child, and the best ways to be supportive allies. We are practically aliens to the outside world when we first lose a child. Everyone deserves to know what to do or say, it is certainly not common knowledge. Grieving parents are also counting on you to start getting this part right. Stay tuned for this collaborative project.

Alright, I suppose you are curious about what I'm finding hard to share with you. So here it is: the enormous loss of my sweet girl has propelled me into an unexpected and profound awakening experience. I want to tell you all about it - and I will eventually - but for now, I want to address why I am apprehensive. I don't think that my experience happens to everyone who has lost a child. I don't want to alienate anyone who is still weighted down deep underground. Everyone grieves differently and there are many legitimate factors that make it incredibly difficult to recover from child loss. I take this risk of alienation by continuing to share my journey. Who knows, it may have an impact on a grieving parent who is still in living hell. Maybe my experience can give just enough hope to someone to untangle and to be released from their own feelings of hopelessness. Especially because I seem to remember being privy to an awful lot of conversations about how when you lose a child, you will live with this pain for the REST OF YOUR LIFE. No light at the end of the tunnel? I didn't want to get up either. Would you?

I feel compelled to offer an alternative to this 'life after child loss' narrative by sharing how I released myself from hopelessness, and what it has led to. One of my main coping strategies during hard times is to research and find sound advice from lived experiences. It was no different when Kamila died. I'm sure I googled "how to survive losing your child" within days of her crossing over. I certainly googled "therapists who have lost a child", because as an alien in the beginning, it's so hard to trust and believe any advice or words from anyone who hasn't lived through it. With no luck finding a therapist who had the same fate as me, I called on mothers who had lost a child before me in my community. I met them at coffee shops, during a time when I was defying gravity to take myself out of the house. I listened to their stories of survival and got to know more about the amazing child they had lost. I began tracing lines from one story to the next, forging a path that would eventually lead me back home.

Psychologist Dr Edith Egar was also instrumental to my journey. About 3 months after my loss, I read The Choice: Embrace the Possible, which is a memoir about her experience as a Holocaust survivor. I'm sure it sounds like a heavy read for a mother in bereavement, but it was exactly what my soul needed. I relished every word she wrote. She became one of my North Stars. My mantra became: if Edith can do it, I can do it. One of the most poignant themes of her story is that no matter the circumstances, no matter how horrible the conditions are in one's life, there is always a choice. This inspired me to make my own choices and to start thinking about my personhood outside of the one who lost her child.

I chose to get up off the ground and to live again in honour of Kamila, and for my living children Char and Eli. What a dishonour it would be to Kamila, I thought, if I ended up staying on the ground and not living when that choice was taken from her. Like choosing to be sedentary when there are people who can no longer walk or move their bodies. I chose to actively pursue joy and laughter to help offset the utmost grief and sadness that permeated every pore on my body. Dark humour helped me to survive the first week like nothing else. One friend left a gift bag with dry shampoo which had me in stitches (Baroness Von Sketch Fans, you get it). Another friend from New Brunswick shipped the crappiest and cheapest wine that exists, the kind that we used to drink as university roomates in Halifax, just to make me laugh. The card said something along the lines of: you don't need to drink this horrid wine, just wanted to make you smile. It definitely made me laugh, AND I definitely didn't drink it (in case you were wondering).

I went to Sedona with my mom to find comfort among the giant red rocks and their infamous energy 'vortexes'. I may have gone a little wild and way over budget on travel for the next while, spreading Kamila's ashes in the most beautiful places. But this 'life is short' attitude was starting to present itself in every choice I was making. I wanted to make Kamila proud of my spontaneity and adventure-seeking. I'm finally at a place where I have slowed down on travel because I don't need to offset from deep sadness anymore. This is one of the major unexpected shifts I spoke about earlier. My new baseline over the last year or so is feeling balanced, calm, and full of gratitude. Ask anyone close to me if I can keep my eyes dry when I experience anything beautiful. I feel more alive than I ever have.

Here is where I understood it wrong, the part about being sad for the rest of my life. I wish Kamila didn't have to die before me. I wish she had a long life and that I could hold her babies some day. So yes, I still grieve and feel sad at times. Very sad. I know exactly what it feels like now, when grief comes knocking on my door. I welcome it in as soon as I can. I surrender my body and let it come through. It makes me seize and feel like I will levitate from tension in my body. I cry, wince, shake, and sometimes hyperventilate. I give myself permission to express my deepest grief. But very soon, I breathe. I breathe again, and again. And then I shift my awareness to the present. I continue on with my day, I carry onward.

I really wasn't sure how to tell you, but I have accepted my fate and burden, and I'm ok. I'm so grateful for this precious life of mine: I made it home.