It's been five years, one month and 27 days since my last blog post and, well, things have changed. I lost my precious Ella Grace on June 1st, 2017 at 7:50 p.m. while she lay in my arms surrounded by our loved ones. It's a moment I will never forget, and one I never want to remember. Because that makes it real.
Two years into life after Ella may sound like a long time to some but I can assure you that when it comes to losing your child - your universe - it is just a brief moment in time. Grief is a sneaky, fickle and unwelcome companion that will follow me until I take my own last breath. And there is nothing I can do about it...except maybe write about it? Which is why I decided to start blogging again. It was a form of therapy for me when Ella was born, raising an atypical child in this world and dealing with all of the experiences and emotions that came along with it. So let's give it a shot.
It's been one year, 11 months and 361 days since Ella left this world and grief has taken me through more emotions than I previously knew existed; emotions that are so intense and strange they don't even have names. Most people who have lost a loved one will probably tell you that whole "seven stages" thing is a crock. Grief is in no way linear or even circular. It's more like a completely tangled mess with no clear path and no end. So how do we even begin to navigate it and attempt to move on?
"Move on." I despise those words right now. Can we ever really do that? And if we do, isn't that doing a disservice to the loved one we have lost? Are we leaving them behind in the wake of our own selfishness to try and live a somewhat normal life and find happiness again? It just feels wrong. But living in this hell and feeling so trapped by the overwhelming sadness is also no way to live. It's complicated to say the very, very least.
I have struggled with finding grief support. I have mostly kept my grief private, only talking sometimes to close friends, maybe an acquaintance who hears my story and seems genuine in wanting to know more, or sharing a memory on Facebook. But no one can see the real, raw, gaping wound that I hide every single day. It has only been in the last few weeks on the eve of Ella's two year angelversary that I made a decision to reach out. Because, quite frankly, I've been sinking.
I mostly lurk in online support groups, reading the pain of hundreds of other parents who have lost their children. Both heartbreaking and somewhat comforting to know you're not alone. But one thing I have found is that grief is so personal and unique to each individual it seems impossible to find anyone else who could understand your reality. Grief is like a fingerprint: no two experiences are exactly alike. That's why it's so painful, and so lonely.
But I did make a decision to try. I plan to go to my first face-to-face grief support group this week which brings about another slew of emotions. I'm nervous, of course. I'm scared of how painful it could be. And I'm also scared I may not relate at all which would make this place feel even lonelier than it already does. I have also started weekly sessions with a grief counselor. It's still very early on in the process but I can admit to having felt a small glimmer of hope from the first two sessions. These may seem like small steps but for me the act of reaching out is huge, and terrifying. But I decided to try and that's really all I can do right now.
