Fewer and Farther Between

That’s the phase I’m in, I suppose. The phase where the waves of grief are fewer and farther between. I don’t feel as compelled to write as often. I wish I could say I’ve found a new groove, a place of peace. Right now, at least, it feels more like a place of complacency and exhaustion. My head has been spinning, helping one kid move across her state from the other side of the country, one kid move into his first dorm as a college freshman, and four kids start school at three different schools. It’s the last time we’ll finagle three schools for kids who live at home. Next year, it’s just the high school and elementary until it’s just one. It would be three still. Three for two more years. But it’s not.

I’ve been in a funk. Low energy, irritable, forcing myself to make the brownies for after school, get up and make breakfast each morning, and trying to get my brain to focus on the post school chatter I initiate about school days and evening plans. It hit me today. I finally found the name for the pain in the middle of my chest that makes it hurt to breath each morning by the time I’m walking Alice to first grade. Caleb.

We had six kids in nine years. Crazy, I know. Those kiddos walked to school together. They played outside everyday together. They rode bikes, made messes, helped me can, cook, bake, fought, and cuddled…together. Alice walks along, holding my hand, just the two of us on her way to first grade each day. She’s completely oblivious to the fact that she was born nearly two years after what our plan had been, a plan turned on it’s head when her brother died. She’s unaware he’d be walking with us to and from school each day, on his last trip through an elementary school classroom as a big sixth grader. We’re both clueless as to how tall he’d be, who his teacher would be, and if his hair would have stayed so pale blonde. His would be classmates are clueless, too. Most people around me are. We moved away from everyone who knew him and no one knows who they’re missing.

Today, and lately, that’s heavy and I miss my village.

Wrestling My Brick

Had a therapy session today and still felt like writing. Like I need to get the thoughts out of my head and process more. I’ve been wrestling my brick a lot lately. Wrestling with the weight of grief and unnecessary worry. The worry that makes me overthink and over analyze every. single. thing. Tony, our 17 year old son, was my first kiddo to have a tonsillectomy, adenoidectomy, and tubes put in. He’s actually been in surgery 4 times for his ears and once for his kidneys. All before Caleb died.

After Caleb died, we transferred Tony’s ENT care to the children’s hospital where Caleb became an organ donor. We’ve loved his care team there and I have faith in them, in my own sort of PTSD way. Tony almost gets annoyed with my questioning everything and explaining to every new nurse or practitioner we see that I have reasons for being so thorough and seemingly paranoid. Conversations I no longer feel awkward having because I buried my son and don’t have the energy to worry about that fact making someone else feel awkward.

This all brings us to tomorrow. Tomorrow, Tony goes in to have what will hopefully be his final ear surgery and allow the missing half of one eardrum to regrow. It’s a lot to take in. It’s the first time I’m trusting an ENT (or anyone) to cut one of my children in 7.5 years. I’ve had all the conversations with his care team. I’ve received all the reassurances. And I still can’t drop the brick. The one that sits on my chest. The one that, even though my head and heart honestly feel okay about tomorrow, lives in some fight or flight response portion of my very core that no amount of love, reassurance, or knowledge can shake.

So, to all of you who have experienced trauma, who know the brick. Who may feel too tired, awkward, alone, or whatever your reason for not sharing the load is; know this. You are not alone. When the brick reappears months or years after trauma, it’s not just you. When irrational overtakes rational, it’s not just you. And I suppose I needed that reminder myself right now.

Take care of yourself. Take care of each other.

-Jenelle

The Sunset is Beautiful

I must admit that I was shocked today when thoughts began flowing and I felt the need to blog them. That hasn’t happened in ages. I’ve largely been absent from not just this blog, but all social media. Blame life, schedules, the pandemic. I simply retreated to my family and generally lost the desire to put much of anything out there. I’d occasionally throw the extended family a picture or post on the Facetube, but I grew tired of the world of digital interaction, likes, and fleeting exchanges. I have been content with my little herd and, honestly, have loved being free of the time blackhole that social media can be. Anyway, I digress.

My children and husband have been filling my heart. We have been healing each other. Covid. Man, what a b***h this pandemic has been for our family and most of the world. Outside of illness and death that has ravaged our immediate and extended family, the PTSD/grief triggers have been real, heavy, profound, and not infrequent. It’s been a bear to mother through. It’s resembled that first year after Caleb’s death in many ways. Upended lives and a loss of normalcy. We’re finally starting down the other side of this mountain. I think. Don’t jinx it!

Yet, there has been so much beauty. It’s no secret that having a baby after Caleb died was terrifying. My prior blog posts about it don’t even scratch the surface. I kid you not, our baby girl is a prophetically miraculous source of wisdom and love. Her declarations of love and wisdom know no limits.

She has never met a living thing she doesn’t long to be best friends with and protect, especially toads, insects, dogs, cats, the random deer, every classmate, and the lady she gleefully skipped up to in the grocery store this last week to make it known that Alice thought her eyeshadow was “really pretty”. The woman (who looked about my mother’s age and did her makeup in a similar way) looked on the verge of tears as she repeatedly thanked my 4 year old for saying the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her. Alice hugged my leg and smiled bashfully at the returned compliment of being such a nice girl with a beautiful bow.

As my 11 year old dotingly had a mini spa day with Alice this weekend while I prepped for a church Christmas party (big sis props!), I overheard a face masked Alice declare to her sis that “this is the life” as they lounged in the toy room and made sure to tell her sister that she’s “just the best”.

I constantly find random video messages on my phone from Alice sneaking off with it to record some message telling me she loves me or serenading me some adorable made up song about whatever is on her mind.

She’ll gently place her hand on my arm and whisper, “I wish Caleb wasn’t in heaven so I could play with him again.” I’ll ask her why she said again and she’ll tell me that she played with him before, in heaven. Then, she’ll cup my cheek, wipe the inevitable tear, and we’ll smile together as our foreheads meet in a wise-beyond-her-years moment of understanding.

She can be a loud, rowdy, will not go to sleep little monster. But, she’s our monster. And she reminds us how to live and love every day, much like her big brother did. I have no idea what I did to deserve to be entrusted with 7 amazing, souls. They try me and push me in ways I never thought possible. I often feel so broken and unworthy. I am such a work in process and God knows I screw up plenty. Yet, they show me unwavering love, understanding, compassion, and a fighting spirit.

My herd, my heart.

So, as we all fly through this crazy, busy holiday season and my little herd moves through our hell week of reminders leading up to Caleb’s death date and birthday, I leave you with some 4 year old wisdom. While driving in the car recently, my 11 year old moaned, “It’s only 4:28 and the sun is already setting!”.

“But, the sunset is beautiful!”, Alice immediately replied. And we all sat in silent awe of it’s beauty for a moment before excitedly beginning a conversation about all the various colors.

Try to remember, there’s beauty in everything. Alice has reminded me of that.

-Jenelle