The Never-Ending Story

I know I have been absent in the pages of this cherished blog.  For many reasons, but mostly because, over the course of the last 18 or so months, words have poured out of me.  I had to get our story, my story out of me.  The flood gates opened and before I knew it, 250 pages telling the good, the bad, the ugly and the entirety of my story start to “finish” was, well, finished.  Since then, I’ve been sitting on it, pondering my options, considering the immense vulnerability this would require, and having, at equitable intervals, much confidence and much (MUCH) self-doubt. 

While all this internal dialogue was happening, I began to have this bubbling of realizations emerge from within me.  I had filled many of the pages of my story with feelings and confidence over the “resolution” of my journey.  Over the years, I have put in so much freaking work to wade through the muck of what began that day in November and the millions of repercussions that trickled into my life and my psyche since.    Having written much about the last nine years, I’ve only recently begun to lack confidence in my emotional and mental resolutions.  I had written myself into those pages to be ok.  Resolved.  My trauma, my healing, my next steps all tidied up into a neat little package.  Lately, that hasn’t felt true.  My story, I’m understanding, will never be neat, tidy, or most of all, gulp, resolved.

Over the course of the last month or two, I’ve experienced an unexpected tsunami of grief.  A few mostly uneventful but contemplative scenarios were set forth in front of me that left my head spinning.  One, a minor medical procedure Elena had turned out to be incredibly painful….for me.  And second a benign event that offered me a look into our future in caring for Elena (which I mostly avoid at all costs).  What these two combined experiences were successful at doing, was opening this great chasm of grief inside me, spilling out into the pages of my journal.  A couple weeks ago, following Elena’s procedure I wrote this:

"Like so many times before, I sat in a sterile hospital room steeling myself against all emotion.  Swallowing lump after lump in my throat, my eyes burn with tears, as I stare at the fluorescent lights above begging my them to dissolve themselves before spilling down my face.  It’s a scene replayed every damn time I’m in that hospital, every damn time I spend an hour detailing Elena’s current issues with doctors in hopes of some relief or resolution.  Just make it back to the car, Emmalee.  That’s what I tell myself.  Don’t fall apart in front of them, Emmalee.  Make it to the car.  Don’t make it about you.  Focus on Elena.  You’re almost there. 

I always make it to the car, thankful for a vast and dark parking garage.  I slide into the driver seat as the sobs finally are freed.  I follow the signs for the exit through eyes blurred with tears.  This is my routine.  I give permission to feel, to release, and be angry.  Because every time I’m angry.  I’m mad that this is my life.  This is her life.  That I have to do this.  That I have to watch this.  That I have to see my daughter subjected to pain, to prodding, to injections, to surgeries, to tube feedings, to grueling therapy, to endless medications, to diapers, to having decisions made for her always and forever, to wondering how she feels about something, to answering questions for her, to picking out braces and wheelchairs and standers and strollers, to this life that we live together.  It isn’t fair.  It’s cruel.  It’s impossible.  It’s heartbreaking.  Every damn time.  I cry for all of this.  Every damn time."

In the weeks since I wrote that, I have been grappling, almost incredulously, at my inability to pull myself together. Usually I’m able to get it out, purge the pain and move on.  But a week later, I cried through lunch with a friend.  The next week my best friend called and I broke down immediately in sobs.  I couldn’t fill Chad in on my day without crying into his shoulder.  Why was I constantly crying?  Where was this coming from?  Why couldn’t I just choose joy?  Get a grip, Emmalee!

As if the light switched back on, I realized my old companion grief was standing right in front of me.  I was in the dark because I didn’t want to acknowledge that it was there.  I was afraid of falling back into the grief pit.  I was trying to outrun what is, in reality, a part of me.  There is this constant incongruence in my life, joy and grief, each a magnet trying desperately to pull me to one side or the other.  My recent days have felt like one of those ambiguous optical illusions that hold two different images in one.  Do you see the duck or the rabbit, the two faces or the vase?  Each day, two images, one person.  One that consciously chooses to see the joy, the abundance.  And the other that, at times, is utterly devastated by overwhelming grief.  Both exist together, within me.  Both create a frustrated wrestling back and forth.

Call me Captain Obvious, but somehow I only recently realized this….that my grief is forever.  Like forever, ever.  For whatever reason in my head, I believed with the “acceptance” of my life and my ability to feel at peace with it, the grief would fade or only lightly and delicately, with the best manners, reveal itself on occasion.  It had, I guess, never occurred to me that with every new phase of Elena’s life, with every new transition, with every new adaptation, with every new realization of what will never be, with every stark difference between our reality and everyone else’s, it always be my companion.  A forever friend that will take my hand and make me remember that my heart will remain broken, forever. 

Maybe I had some understanding of this concept in the last few years.  Perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised by this and that when the wave comes, it hurts all the same, but I am.  It catches me off guard every time.  And every time it takes me a minute to turn the lights on and recognize what grips me.  Ohhhhhh yeah, ‘sup grief you’re back and you’re annoying.  Then resumes my internal struggle between living my life with joy and gratitude and giving recognition to the pain that exists there too.

Part of my healing continues to be learning to reconcile these together, to accept both, to understand that the opposing forces will always be opposing but I must learn to exist with and acknowledge both, because both are entirely deserving and both are entirely, me.  When I allow myself to acknowledge it, feel it, let it swallow me, it gives me a feeling of validity.  That my life, my experience, my feelings are real and worthy to be mourned.  Grief in, cruel, ironic way, affirms me.

There was a quote on Brene Brown’s Instagram page recently, “Grief requires witnessing.  The need is for someone to be fully present to the magnitude of their loss without trying to point out the silver lining.”  I’m totally a silver lining girl, but it’s also necessary for me to remain honest about the challenges of my life and allow myself room to mourn the losses I experience daily.  The grief can also serve as a baptism of sorts for the routine that my stride can fall into.  It washes away the parts of me that pretend everything is normal and even and monotonous, reminding me of the importance of my loss, my challenges, what will never be.  It’s a constant perspective shift.  By sharing my grief with others, I feel more authentic and honest, which I believe creates connection.   I’m not always ‘such a good mom’ or ‘so strong’ or ‘so inspiring’.  I’m human and I fall apart.  I lose it in my car.  I want you to bear witness that my road is not one of overcoming a trauma, a major life obstacle.  It’s overcoming obstacles every single day.  It’s a perpetual cycle of me falling apart and pulling myself together.  When I feel as though I’m falling apart, and I have to navigate with a brave face, it reminds me of all the others out there who must do the same.  Better yet, it prompts me to send silent prayers for those who cannot even muster a brave face, who can’t make it to their car in the parking garage, who can’t smile for the picture.  Grief can offer itself as a connector, not always an isolator.  Valuing both the abundance and the grief, both pictures of my life, seeing the ‘duck’ and then also looking for the ‘rabbit, doesn’t create a ‘resolved’ ending, but rather authentic opportunity to navigate whatever lies ahead. 

Does this seem exhausting to you?  Because I cannot begin to tell you how exhausted this makes me or how ridiculous I feel for thinking for one moment that my chapter of grief and pain and heartache were mostly a thing of the past.  But I guess that is what this life is for, living and learning and preparing yourself to do better for what comes next.  And, as for what does come next, I don’t know.  I have a story that I’m still figuring out how to tell.  When I do, I’m certain it will be the most authentic version I can offer. 

Nine Years Later

    I’ve spent the better part of a week trying to articulate what was circulating inside me.  I wrote paragraph after paragraph of emotions that were authentic to how I was feeling, but it never just felt totally “right”.  I was missing something.  Tonight, I felt the dam inside break.  I held my head in my hands and felt the tears slowly work themselves out. 

    I’ll be honest.  This day, November 3^rd, doesn’t always feel this hard.  It truly is a day of mixed emotions.  But this year, for some reason, it’s felt different.  There’s been this persistent nudging the last few days that has left me teary at times, prompting flashbacks, and left me wondering why it’s been a struggle. 

    And then, it made sense.  It clicked in my head. 

    It’s never the day itself.  Despite the sheer tragedy of that day, when the anniversary rolls around, I usually find myself full of gratitude for the sparing of Elena’s life, for all the good that has emerged in my life as a result, for the faith on which I’ve relied, for the strength in which I’ve found.  I truly am grateful for this journey I’ve been set upon.  It has wholly changed me, top to bottom, inside out.  That day, nine years ago, I was cracked open, the shell of old me fell away and a new self awakened and stepped into this life.  It has been ugly, grief-laden, heart-breaking, enraging, and a thousand other things that I never knew one could feel.  It’s been that but it’s also been the most rewarding experience of hope, perspective, gratitude, joy, love, faith, truly the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. 

    What I realized tonight that it isn’t November 3^rd, it’s the preceding days that rattle me, that dredge up that uncomforting swirl of dread and remembrance.  It makes me remember. 

    The flashbacks of that day do still hit me, more often than I would probably admit, with an overwhelming rush of memory and emotion.  Sometimes it’s me weeping, running down a sterile, fluorescently lit hospital hallway into the arms of a beloved family friend.  It’s the image of Elena in a white diaper, under the brilliant lights of the ER, her tiny body laid upon a sprawling gray, cold examination table.  I remember what I wore:  mustard colored sweater, striped collared shirt, jeans, boots that made a clunk, clunk sound that echoed off the parking garage walls as I sprinted from my car to the ER at Riley.  I can still feel the freefall of my stomach, the thud of my heart against my chest, the nausea rising in my throat, the tears that rained freely and constantly down my cheeks.  I can envision Dr. Smith’s serious eyes and the calm intensity about her face as she asked permission to drill a hole in Elena’s skull at her bedside to relieve building pressure in her brain.  The one that haunts me the most, the drive to the hospital where my thoughts went scattered, my mouth could not form words, only hysterical screams that clawed their way from some unknown part of myself.  All of these, and more, still grip me from time to time, especially around this time of year, each time forcing tears that sting my eyes and usher in a reminder that all of these were actual things I lived.  Real life moments I experienced.  I witnessed. 

    But more than just November 3^rd itself, I have distinct and vivid memories of the last days with that little, precious baby.  I remember how she looked in her chicken costume on her first Halloween, cheeks squeezed together by the white feathered fabric hood.  I remember the last walk we took with her, our typical stroll under the falling leaves of the tree-lined streets of our neighborhood.  She was wearing a little pink hoodie on the last day I picked her up from daycare.  It had been a beautiful day, the babysitter taking her out for a walk.  Our last dinner the night before, we ate spaghetti with dear friends, Chad bouncing her on his knee at the dinner table.  Those memories are the last, of that little girl, and the end of a life I would never know, making them precious, almost sacred.  The fading sunlight on a closing chapter of my life, the calm before the biggest of life’s storms.  And that’s what I’ve been grieving the last few days.  That’s what I grieve every year from October 31^st to November 2^nd.  I grieve for that lost innocence, those unmet expectations and most of all, for my baby girl, whom I would never get to know. 

    As you’ve read time and again, God spared Elena’s life on November 3^rd, but to me, metaphorically, everything died that day and was returned in a different way.  We were all reshaped, reborn, reset on a path we couldn’t have imagined.  There was a time where I was angry about it, unwilling to accept, but I’ve come through that.  I will always long to see how things would have turned out and of course, I would give anything, anything for my dear Elena to be whole, but what I have found on this side of it far outweighs whatever I thought I lost.  Despite the tragedy our family had to endure, the gifts we have been given as a result are far beyond anything I ever could have asked or imagined.  God’s promise reigned true.  He delivered.  He was faithful.

    What I realized tonight is that it’s okay to still grieve a life I will never have.  It’s alright for me to still, nine years later, mourn that little girl whom I will never know, while still loving the Elena that was given back to me.  I can both grieve and feel a deep satisfaction of how my life has turned out.  I can both grieve her and remarkable, overwhelming joy when I look into her eyes.   I can both struggle and be strong at the same time.  I can wonder what a life could have been while being incredibly grateful for this abundant life I have been given.  Joy and sorrow.  Grief and gratitude.  Pain and purpose.  These can all go hand-in-hand. They have all been woven into the fabric of my life.  I can grieve the last memories of that life and still wake up November 3^rd and be overwhelmed by joy and thankfulness for this life I live.  It doesn’t have to be one or the other.   

    I’m finishing this as the sun dawns over this day, forever memorialized as the day our lives were forever changed.  I get to wake my girl with our morning song, kisses on her cheeks.  The grief of yesterday is a memory.  The rising sun brings with it a profound love for my family and the well of joy within springs forth, exploding my heart with gratitude for this life of hardship and abundance God has called me to.  Acknowledging the sorrow of the last few days does not replace the peace that holds me today.  Instead they work together to remind me of the love and privilege I have in Elena, this daughter of mine, who has stolen my heart in a million different ways, taught me more about resilience and unconditional love than I ever thought possible.  All of these emotions work together to remind me of the privilege of each breath, each dawn, each opportunity to bring love and goodness into this dark and flawed world.  And so, today, November 3, 2020, nine years later, I hang onto the pain of this day with one hand and hang onto the hope that always lies in tomorrow with the other.  It doesn’t have to be a choice.    

Nine.

I began writing a birthday post to my best girl earlier this week.  It was about how, after her injury, birthdays have come to mean something more than just balloons and cake and presents.  It was deep and heavy and I just don’t think the world needs more deep and heavy right now.  There’s so much of that every where we turn these days.  I don’t want to relive the suffering, the heartache, the injustice, the pain, the depth of what she has endured in her short nine years.  Here’s what I want to put into the world today, on my darling Elena Catherine’s 9^th birthday.

Love.  Joy.  Light.  Three words that sum up my gal.  She’s what the world needs right now.  Who Elena is and what Elena represents is everything that is good and worthy in this life.  She is an overcomer, not a victim.  She is determination, not resignation.  She is gratitude, not cynicism.  She is perspective, not close-mindedness.  She is peace, not bitterness.  She is a uniter, not a divider.  She is love.  She is joy.  She is light. 

I was recently talking with Chad about what a great school year Elena had and how grateful I am for the team of people, peers and staff that cultivate this experience for her each day at her school.  I expressed how lucky I feel to have her in a place where she is SO loved and celebrated.  These things are all quite true, but Chad then added, “But Emm, it wouldn’t matter where we put Elena.  Wherever she is, she draws people to her with that light inside her.  People love her and gravitate to her wherever she is.  She’s impossible not to love.”  And he was right.  She is love. 

While it indeed breaks my heart to run through the never-ending list of suffering, enduring and overcoming that my girl has had to do in her short nine years, I have also been greeted by her every single morning with a grin, a coo and, some mornings, an uncontrollable case of the giggles.  What this has taught me is that it never matters what you must endure each day, it’s how you endure that counts.  There is no greater inspiration to me than this.  She is joy.

Calvin and I were recently reading a book on Helen Keller.  It initiated a conversation between us when I became a little emotional reading about the frustration Helen felt as a young girl who was unable to communicate.  He asked why I was crying and I told him it made me sad to think that Elena may feel similarly misunderstood or frustrated since she wasn’t able to communicate, much like Helen.  I told him that Mommy wishes more than anything that Elena could talk with us.  Calvin is a thinker, an analyzer, and I could see the wheels turning.  He just looked at me with his big, brown eyes and said, “Nah, Mommy.  It’s ok that Elena doesn’t talk like we do.  I love Elena just the way she is.”  Imagine that.  Accepting someone for exactly who they are, seeing beyond what they can’t do, and loving them just where they are.  She is light. 

Sometimes I like to think that when her heart stopped beating briefly that ugly November day, God held her close in His arms for those silent moments, and with a kiss sent her back to us touched by Him, a light within her burning brighter, more perfect, as a piece of heaven on Earth.  I know that she was sent back to us, in her own way, perfected, special, and most importantly, with immense purpose.  She is a reminder to me each and every day of the fleeting gift of life, every single morning an opportunity to love more, to laugh more, and to truly rise above the unmeaningful distractions of this world.  She has changed me, as a Mom, but moreso as a human.  What she has taught me and what she continues to teach me refines me, stretches me and grows me.  For a little sweet pea who has never spoken a word, I'd say that's miraculous.  

Today, in honor of our Elena’s 9^th birthday, do something that she does every day.  Choose joy.  Spread joy.  Choose love.  Spread love.  Choose light.  Spread light.  Look around and choose to see what goodness surrounds all of us.  Think of Elena.  Think of what she chooses every day.  Be the light where you are.  Love people for who they are, where they are, what their abilities are.  And always approach your day with a smile, a coo or an uncontrollable giggle. 

To my darling Laney Lou on your 9^th birthday, indeed you are my little slice of heaven on Earth.  You inspire me, your Daddy, your brothers and the world around you with all that you are.  Your abilities are what make you, you and you couldn’t be more perfect.  I delight in your smile, your giggle fits and your big, colorful bows.  You are the heartbeat of our family and it is a privilege, a true honor to watch you grow into the beautiful, little girl that you are.  Happy birthday my love. 

The Power of Sharing

Hello Friends! 

I haven't forgotten about this little space of the world I carved out for myself 8 years ago.  It may be a little neglected lately but it still speaks to my heart and serves as a snapshot of a very difficult period of my life that I walked through.  More importantly, it was a way to connect to all of you who have followed along with our journey, as I worked to rebuild a life that was turned upside down.  I haven't forgotten any of you!  Your support, whether it started day one or you're just now finding us, has meant everything.  I've often hesitated to put myself out there with my writing, but each time I got nervous hitting the 'publish' button, you always responded with graciousness and kind words.  It's been so uplifting to feel supported by all of you, truly an integral part of my healing process. 

I'm obviously not writing much here anymore, but it doesn't mean that I'm not still writing!  I've been writing pretty frequently, still processing everything I walked through these past eight years.  And news flash, still unpacking unresolved feelings and realizations.  It's been really cathartic and has given me a clearer vision for my future.  I hope to be able to share the nitty gritty details of all that I didn't share here with you all, someday.  I have more story to tell and hopefully more truth, love and beauty to share with the world.  Connection to each other is the real inspiration here, and no matter how we do it, via the internet or in person, it can all be meaningful and real.  Elena is my inspiration in life and it gives me true joy and continued healing to be able to share her with you. 

Awhile back, a friend from college reached out to me asking if I would be interested in interviewing with her on her (and her friends') podcast.  I immediately said yes, but acknowledged flutters of doubt and fear over actually speaking publicly.  I much prefer to write, purging all my feeling and thoughts in print where I feel I'm best (and more comfortable) at articulating.  As the interview neared, my fear and doubts in ability and qualifications threatened to consume me.  I prayed for peace and confidence but when Emily showed up at my door step a couple weeks ago, I was admittedly terrified.  Fortunately, I knew her and she's always been genuine, warm and thoughtful, therefore I trusted her.  My hands may have been shaking the entire interview, but once it was done, I felt more than relief.  I felt a deep, deep gratitude.  I realized that no one, for the most part, had ever asked me deep, meaningful questions outside of what actually happened to Elena.  I was so fulfilled being able to share my journey of discovery and healing, rather than the devastation of her injury.  Emily's questions were gentle, yet purposeful and deep, which I truly appreciated.  I had stepped entirely out of my comfort zone, but on the other side I found it wasn't so scary, another learned lesson to tuck away. 

For those of you who have already listened to the interview and responded to me, gosh, thank you.  I was terrified the morning it came out, and you all made me feel, once again, supported and appreciated.  It is tough to put yourself out there, and to be met with your sweet messages of encouragement, appreciation and connection, in turn, makes it all worthwhile. 

As Emily said, we both believe strongly in the power of sharing our stories with others.  I still believe in that power, and this most certainly confirmed that.  There is power in overcoming fear, speaking your truth, and making a small ripple of hope and encouragement in an often times, hopeless world. 

Share on, friends.  And I will too.

You can listen to my interview with Emily from The Illuminate Podcast by clicking HERE.  I'd encourage you to listen to some of their other interviews, which are equally inspiring (hence my feelings of under-qualification!).  Love you, friends.

A Purpose Found

This year there was no dread.  There was no clenching of my insides.  My mind wasn’t transported back to those dark, fearing moments.  My heart wasn’t wrenched in pain.  No, this year has simply been memory.  A memory of the worst day of my life that deserves its due recognition of just that.  Perhaps it’s just the passage of time.  Perhaps it’s the hard-earned efforts of a journey I was set upon that day eight years ago.  Or perhaps it’s purpose.

From the very beginning, it’s never been about that day, the what happened, as traumatic as that event was.  It has always been about her.  How we were to move forward as a family.  How we were to pick up the pieces of our shattered life and put something resembling a life back together.  How we were going to adapt our lives to her needs.  But in the past, this day has always been the stinging reminder that we had a before with her, a blissfully naïve life of endless possibilities, and then that terrible day when our world fell apart.  This year, the reminder is there but the hurt feels more like a scar across my heart rather than an open wound. 

Eight years.  Eight hard-earned years of life, of course, with moments of joy and happiness and all the goodness of life, but mostly a time of grief and learning to navigate a life I didn’t choose.  This past year, however, has been the greatest of my life.  For no particular reason I suppose.  Maybe because I’m settling into myself.  I’ve worked through so much pain and sadness and adversity and am finally reaping the benefits of clarity, perspective, gratitude and yes, purpose. 

Last week at church, I heard a sermon on greatness.  What defines it.  How you achieve it.  And he quoted something that settled into my soul like recognizing an old friend.  He said, “Impact requires sacrifice.  We want maximum impact with minimum sacrifice and we spend our lives negotiating between the two.” 

I’d be willing to declare I have endured maximum sacrifice, and well, my impact, Elena’s impact is yet to be determined.  But here’s what I do know.  She is my purpose.  Being her Mom, being her voice, sharing her story, and sharing mine is my purpose.  God created me for this time in my life.  He equipped me with what it takes to fulfill what I was put here to do, and that is to share.  Who listens doesn’t matter, but it’s me putting our heartbreak and our healing out there for people to make of it what they may.  They can take of it what they can and hopefully inspire people to keep pushing through this ride called life.  We all endure suffering, but it is what happens during and after the suffering what matters, what determines the impact your suffering will make. 

I’m only in my mid-thirties, my life’s purpose hasn’t exactly been at the forefront of my mind.  I was only 27 when Elena was injured.  I had barely begun my adult life.  Even so, I wouldn’t say that I’m the kind of personality that determinedly seeks one’s purpose in life.  But, over the past year the settling of my soul, the clearing of my heart and mind has left but one constant, the desire to share Elena’s story, my story and the encouragement that can only come from surviving the worst.

And so, year eight, I rest in this place.  A place of peace, of contentment, of goodness and of gratitude.  I’m reflective of what mire I have waded through, grateful to look into the beautiful, blue eyes of my precious daughter, privileged to care for her, to be her legs and arms, to be her voice, to share the miracle of what she lived through and who she is.  Finding my purpose in her is not only freedom from the chains of the past, but the greatest honor of my life. 

Happy Birthday Elena!

Friends, I know it's been awhile.  For me, it's been refreshing.  I haven't felt the obligation that the blog was beginning to feel for me.  What started as a sort of journal for me and a way to update those who were following Elena's recovery, began to feel like a chore.  My writing needs to be inspired and fortunately for me, I wasn't being compelled to write and share in the same ways that I once had.  That's good for me, because I feel like I can once again breathe.  I'm not gripped with emotion, battling my way through every day like I once was.  And friends, THAT'S GREAT NEWS!  For all of us, who have battled, are battling or will battle in the future...it ends.  And life gets sweet again. 

Life is sweet today because we celebrate yet another year with our best girl.  Today is Elena's 8th birthday.  She's big, you guys.  She's tall, skinny.  Her face has thinned from what once was a chubby-cheeked, baby-toothed smile.  Sweet little freckles now dot under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose.  Her little baby teeth have been replaced (and are still coming in!) with big, too-big-for-her-smile teeth.  Though she's growing, she's still just as sweet, just as funny, just as snuggly.  In spite of whatever pain exists at the knowledge that she will never grow and change like my boys do, a giant swell of love swoops up to envelope me when I think of cuddling her forever or my definite future of Disney songs on repeat always.  Our road with her is different.  Some days it's painful and other days a special gift I get to think upon. 

But today, she's 8.  She will be a second grader in just a few weeks, surrounded by her unfathomably inclusive and loving peers and teachers.  We will celebrate by bowling later this week, a new-found source of excitement for her.  Her therapies continue.  Her physical challenges continue.  But so does the joy she brings to our lives every day.  So do the lessons in patience, acceptance, love, kindness, problem-solving, resiliency and a million other things I've learned along the way.  Though these life lessons I've learned and pray my boys learn have been beneficial, she remains the gift.  She will always be the gift, the reminder of God's goodness and mercy and faithfulness.  Whatever I face in this life of mine will never compare to what she overcomes every single day.  Seeing her grin, hearing her laugh, watching her succeed is worth every tear that has been shed over the last eight years. 

My sweet little girl.  My Elena Catherine.  The one who taught my heart to beat.  You are so loved.  You are so valued.  You are the most precious gift.  Happy Birthday my darling.

Seven Year Storm

This road I've walked for the last seven years, many of you right along side me, has been a roller coaster of ups and downs, gratefulness and grief.  It's hard for me to go back and read some of my old posts, some of my old journal entries.  The ones where I remember clawing, scraping, searching for whatever shred of hope I could at the time, always wondering when it would end.  When would the grief, heartache, utter difficulty of processing this life would fade into the background and emerge into the sunlight, coming out of the wilderness?  I mean, I'm not sure if I'm there.  But maybe it feels that way?  Seven years of emotion-ing, comprehending, figuring, okay-ing feels like I've put in my time.  I can close the door on that, right?

The last few months, my mind and my heart have been rewarded with a time of ease, an overwhelming peace, really.  I've felt myself emerging from the fog of seven years of everything listed above.  And man, it feels so very, very good.  As my girlfriend put it yesterday, it is finally freaking well with my soul.  I haven't exactly nailed the "why?" yet.  Why all of a sudden life feels really good, settled, fulfilled now?  But to be honest, I don't care.  I've wrestled with the "why" for a very long time and some part of me always will.  And a big part of me knows "why" is the worst question ever, because there's never an answer or good enough answer, no matter how much searching goes on.  I'll accept this generous gift of peace and contentment with pleasure, no questions asked.  (For now.  Ha!) 

I feel an immense gratitude for this.  It's true.  When you've walked through seemingly never-ending valley that I have, the mountains are so, so sweet.  This mountaintop isn't even remarkable or exciting.  It just feels like peace.  I always pictured mountaintops to be when something amazing happens to you or everything is going right in your life.  I'm beginning to think it's not that dramatic.  Just a settled sense of satisfaction, perhaps.  Or maybe an opportunity when you aren't fighting something and your heart can process the goodness of your life, instead of the difficult circumstance.  Actually, I hope that mountaintop looks more like a mesa!  A nice flat surface at top that lasts a good, long while before the ground gives way again.  I know there are always rocks to navigate, either up over the top or to swerve around, but a peak nonetheless.

With Elena, there are always rocks in our path that look like heartaches, suffering, difficult decisions to be made, medical issues she faces.  A bumpy ride is a 100% guarantee.  For the most part, I accept that, though it still stings.  I am still learning and trying to understand how different our lives are from most, outside the obvious physical and emotional challenges of having a child (who is growing longer and bigger by the day!) with special needs.  It is woven into our every day lives and into every single decision we make.  There are a plethora of ways this both directly and indirectly affects our lives.  There are tangible, expected ways and there's emotional hurts and realizations you would never know.  It is a driving force in our lives, but we know that and (most days) we accept that. 

In other words, life ain't perfect.  Everyone knows that.  I just want to be certain I'm honest.  Despite whatever good, Instagram-able, rosy picture I paint, it's not perfect.  It may be those things, but I've still got probs!  Just fewer, less, "a bomb went off in the middle of my life" probs.  I hope this is a comfort to someone out there.  Like, hey girl....I just endured seven years of you name the problem it probably happened to me in some way, shape, or form....I get you.  I can relate.  It's really hard and really sad and really miserable.  Find the good in the storm, no matter how ridiculous or small.  Hang on and ride it out.  It ends.  It always does.  Even better, write it down for the world to see (or maybe just in a private journal!), and it will eventually give your pain a purpose.  For me, writing it got it out, marked my place, my battle and looking back, helped me see all the answered prayers that I didn't even remember praying.  I still try to recognize the answered prayers, no matter how small they may be, and use that to push me forward with gratitude and confidence that I am being heard and I'm not alone. 

The last couple days my heart was heavy with the reality that Elena has to endure so many challenges.  Specifically, how her little body fails her all the time, wondering how this feels and if she suffers.  Her muscles are tense and often immovable.  She is unable to really communicate with us other than basic expressions.  There's so much interaction she misses out on because of this and because her body struggles to perform the simplest of movements.  Relationships with peers, with us and with her brothers can be tough.  Yesterday, God cut away the sadness in my heart during Elena's weekly PT session.  Unprompted, both Calvin and Turner joined Elena for most of her session, practicing sitting, taking steps, doing her stretches and tummy time, all while cheering her on and demanding her PT to HELP HER! when she struggled with something.  To see them with her, beside her, helping her, cheering her gave me the glimpse my heart needed to see, the connection, even without the understanding.  What a win this was for my heart.  What an answered prayer it was, that I didn't remember praying. 

Practicing sitting

Tummy Time