"Grief is not an event. It is a permanent alteration."

Just when grief feels manageable, the rug is pulled from beneath my feet. It leaves me face down and startled that I'm back in a low. That's the thing about grief. It's unpredictable. Right when it starts to have a rhythm, suddenly it doesn't anymore. Suddenly I'm drowning, gasping for air. Wondering how I will ever surface again.

I've had a lot of lows lately. And this time, I find that I am internalizing them rather than reaching out to my family or friends. Until now...the 15th...when I force myself to sit, reflect, and write.

Back on the 25th, Rylan had surgery for urethral meatal stenosis. When I first spoke with his pediatrician about the situation, he was confident that Rylan would need surgery. Right away I had anxieties. Any surgery involving your children, big or small, is stressful. This was no exception. The day prior, I got a call from Mary Bridge with the check-in instructions, where to go, and day-of plan. I was told to check in at the main entrance of Tacoma General, the hospital where Matt passed away. I asked the woman on the phone if there was another entrance I could use or another way to check Rylan in for surgery. I briefly explained the situation but unfortunately, there was nothing she could recommend to make it any easier. I was forced to face the fear.

Prior to surgery. Such a good boy! 

Waking up afterwards. Sleepy and snuggly. 

Arrival wasn't as difficult as I expected. The triggers showed up later when Rylan was wheeled back to the operating room and the nurses told my mom and me where we could wait. We got off the elevator on the 6th floor and made our way to the surgery waiting room. I froze. My mind was racing. Is it the same waiting room? The same one we waited in for 14 hours while Matt had open heart surgery? The same phone that rang with updates from the operating room? The same waiting room that was full of family and friends for 4 days while we prayed, cried, supported, and hoped for Matt's life? The same waiting room? Was it? I couldn't figure it out. Surely it wouldn't be the same. We were at the children's hospital. I tried to articulate to my mom what I was questioning. Thankfully she already knew and guided me to a table to sit and wait. My legs trembled with anxiety, I cried, and I thought I was going to vomit. Once the fog settled a bit, I came to realize it was the same waiting room. The same, dreaded, horrible place. I tried not to look around. I tried to not remember. But it was impossible not to. Triggers. Intense and impossible to avoid.

Olivia and Rylan picked the colors of their balloons. 

The 29th we celebrated Matt's 36th birthday. The week leading up to his birthday I try really hard to focus on the beauty of Matt's life instead of the ache that comes with his passing. Most of the time, this approach is successful. I find joy in remembering the hilarious stories that come from knowing Matt. But it's also impossible to pretend that the grief isn't there. At 4.5, Olivia loves birthdays. All week we talked about Daddy's birthday, the dessert, the balloons, and the swimming. She was so excited when she woke up on his birthday. It pains me when she asks, "Is Daddy actually going to be there?" or "What about a present for Daddy?" She hasn't grasped yet what happened to Matt. She knows he's in Heaven. She knows he's with Jesus. But until she starts asking me for more, I keep her knowledge simple. She has the rest of her life to grieve. We celebrated with Matt at the cemetery. We wrote on balloons like we've done in the past and sent them to him. Prior to everyone getting to the cemetery, I sat with Matt and cried. I looked at the dates on his grave marker, as I have so many times, still in shock and disbelief. Following the cemetery, we spent the day at Matt's childhood home. We swam, we had a BBQ, and we gathered together as family. I know Matt celebrated most of his birthdays the same way. Swimming with his friends and family on the beautiful July day.

The next morning I was at the gym and the reality of Matt's birthday sunk in. It was during warmup that I started thinking about the day prior and what it was. I started thinking about how we had a good day. How we celebrated Matt, we sang to him, we toasted him. But then I found myself angry and sad. I hate that we have to celebrate Matt without him here. I hate the fact that we have to spend the morning at the cemetery or that we aren't creating new memories with him here. I fought back tears, ran to the bathroom a couple of times, and tried to escape the thoughts that were in my head.

Of course, it isn't just two days over the last month that has been making me feel low. Grief runs parallel with life. Forever it will be right beside me. Even during the times when life is flowing nicely, grief is still right there. My lows are from the reminders that are everywhere. The stores are already selling stuff for fall. A huge reminder that another anniversary is almost here. Fall means so much navigating and processing. The lows come from the trials and stress of parenting. It's the added weight of single parenting. It's the constant demand of being "on" at all times. It's the loneliness that sits on my chest every single evening. It's the pressure of feeling like I'm not doing enough. There are so many layers and elements to my feelings lately. Some I can't even process yet. 

I try and face the lows with how Matt would. I try and think about what our conversations would sound like. How would he encourage me? What would he tell me to take off my plate to make my life easier? I also think about what he would tell me now as he sees me navigate life without him. If he had a chance to talk to me now, what would he tell me? Would he say he's proud of how I make it through each day? Even the days that are really hard, would he think I've done a good job? 

"Grief is not an event. It is a permanent alteration."