Well, I survived Mother’s Day. My boys were amazing and I actually enjoyed myself. I cried but it didn’t consume me, I had a couple celebratory mimosas but didn’t go overboard, I took a nap but got out of bed when it was over. I showed Jackson my memory box containing Elvis’ ultrasound pictures and various condolence cards. We watched old videos of Adelaide and laid together in her room. And I cuddled Jackson extra close while watching a movie, making new memories together. All in all, it was a good day and I owe that to Mig and J but also to so many of you for your gentle wishes, and for giving me space to work through my thoughts and emotions in this blog.

Fair warning, this is where the warm fuzzy’s end. The very next day, I didn’t waste any time spiraling into anxiety oblivion. Another “first” down. Everyone comes out in support when it’s your first Mother’s Day, birthday, or (insert holiday here) without a loved one, but what about when it’s the second, third, ninth… are they still as understanding? Does the pain ever lessen? Do I even want it to? And, well, I’m sure you can see the rabbit hole my brain slid down from there.

I know where this rabbit hole ends. I’ve been here before, weekly, if not daily. Sometimes I trip in unexpectedly, other times I can see it coming from a mile away. Either way, I struggle to answer the same basic question: how do I move forward with my life, allowing myself to heal so that I can lessen the pain, but also never forgetting anything about my Adelaide. I am terrified that if I don’t hold on to the pain of losing her that I will start to lose the pieces of her I still hold in my heart. It would be easy to simply say that will never happen, but I know thats not true. The pain (and joy and love) is interwoven with the memories. It is incredibly difficult to separate them, throw in her chronic illness and it is nearly impossible. So, my most basic fear is that in letting go of the pain I will sacrifice some of the memories. Inevitably, as we create new memories, old memories blur and fade. The bajillion photos stored in my phone will help but there isn’t a photo for everything. Perhaps as a consolation for memory loss, any pain associated is diminished in kind. Which is why, I suppose, it is said that time heals all wounds.

We don’t worry about this as much with our loved ones who are still with us because we are able to make new memories with them. But when that is no longer possible the memories we already have become everything. In a battle with time, time will always win. I know this is true, yet I’ve built strong defenses by trying to hold on to all that I can, constantly looking back and reflecting on our time together. But this sword cuts both ways and by holding on so fiercely I am inevitably holding on to the pain of losing her as well. I am sure there is some carefully constructed balance where most of the memories are still there, and with them some pain, but there is also acceptance and happiness. There is an ability to confidently move forward with life. In fact it is probably clearly detailed in one of the grief books or workbooks stacked on my nightstand and collecting dust. I can hear my mother’s voice in my head now reminding me of their existence. Today, I’m still clinging to those memories. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready to read one of those books…