Episode 11: Love

Today was a hard day. It felt like I was in a movie, but not in the dreamy “I made it to Hollywood” kind of way. In the, “is this my fucking life?” and “who the hell wrote this script?” kind of way.

Since Nora passed, I have a new and more profound appreciation for the wave-like, storm-like nature and sheer strength of grief. The surges. The fierce, hard-hitting waves. Some that you can see, anticipate, prepare for, others that blindside you and knock you straight to the ground - winded, breathless.

Today was a combo, I’d say. Hints of it building, but no clear indication of when it would strike.

And then it did. Unrelenting sobs. Longing. Anger. Despair. And the ache. The ache that takes hold and you fear might never let go.

But just like waves crashing or a ravaging storm - it never lasts forever. And often just as suddenly as it hits, an exhausted calmness settles in as it passes through.

The whines of our dog Drexler urged me off the couch and into the small forest around the corner from our house. So I walked. I walked looking up at the trees, at the ground beneath my feet, at my dog scampering about. It was dusk - the sun swiftly setting. Fresh air. And I walked. Numb. So very numb.

Then I felt anger. Anger that there is so much pain and suffering that we cannot control, yet people all over the world are experiencing pain and suffering that is directly or indirectly caused by other people. As an act of self-preservation, we often shield ourselves from other people’s pain. We try to protect ourselves. The reality is, though, that this act of self-preservation intentionally or unintentionally expands our capacity to tolerate the suffering of others. It does not protect us. That’s an illusion. In the end, we are all vulnerable and that vulnerability is scary as hell. If only this vulnerability could only connect us rather than tear us apart.

It also sunk in this afternoon - as I weathered the raging waves of emotion - that a part of me died with Nora that day. The inevitability of this etched in a mothers love for her child and the simple fact that we were as connected as two people could be. The “what could have beens” and “what should have beens” now no more than a figment of my imagination, of my dreams. And the beating question “who am I now that she’s gone?”- still sorting that one out.

One of the most perplexing aspects though, of losing your child 24 hours before they are born is that with her death, there was also birth. This is disorienting and overwhelming but also makes it quite clear that just as much as parts of me died with her that day, I know deep within my bones that parts of me were also born with her. And, as unrelenting as the grief is, even more unrelenting is my love for her and the gift that she is and will continue to be in my life.

So today, her death and the parts of me that died with her weigh heavy on my heart.

For all of my tomorrows, it’s the parts of me that were born with her, the parts of me yet to be discovered, that will carry me through.

I love you, Nora.