Countless times I have been told with the utmost sincerity and respect, “I lost my parent/spouse/sibling, but that’s nothing like losing a child.” Child loss is generally considered, to quote from Hamilton, “the unimaginable”. The thing is labeling grief from child loss this way doesn’t benefit the griever as many people seem to think it should.
I love the holidays, I really do. But the stress of making holiday magic is a lot, on top of, you know, just all the regular life stuff. This week I felt my anger and irritability rise and my usual tricks weren’t working. I was in an ugly cycle of stress, lashing out, and instant guilt. Then during a magical acupuncture session, I was able to find the reset I was desperately seeking, along with some advice that forced me to rethink the way I was managing my emotions. Photo styled and taken by Anessa.
It’s only been two weeks since my last post, but it might as well have been two months. That my family is currently functional at all is a testament to my mother and aunt who stepped in to help while I’ve been away. This is a season of life. I keep reminding myself that while simultaneously trying to enjoy my newfound freedom and purpose. Seriously, this tour has been incredible and I am beyond grateful that I could travel and share my words in the way I have. But I would feel false if I didn’t admit that even still my grief catches up to me.
With Normal Broken out in the world and my book tour underway, I figured everyone would forgive me if there was no blog this week. Then I got on the plane to fly from New Jersey to Chicago and was hit with the reality of what I was embarking on and what a big deal all of this is for me professionally and personally.
I am still riding the high from an incredible three days in Southern California last weekend. It was amazing to see so many friends and be enveloped in their support and hugs. They filled my heart to the brim, not least of which by this incredible wonder woman, Emma and her parents. Who graciously walked me through a surprise bout of griefousy: AKA grief disguised as jealousy. Four years in to this particular grief journey and it doesn’t stop being weird.
Life is a whole freaking lot right now. Domestically we can’t break away from these awful mass shootings and antisemitic words and actions. Abroad it feels like every time I turn around another war is breaking out or another terrorist group is attacking. Tuesday morning, I cracked like an egg, all over the floor of my closet. So, this morning I decided to stop, breathe, and try to reground myself with a little perspective.
Earlier this year, I received an email from our representative at the Undiagnosed Diseases Network. They had finally received and analyzed the results from the genome testing done on Adelaide’s donated brain. The emotions that ensued took me on an unexpected ride leaving me yearning for the peace I had hoped would come with a diagnosis.
I am in the weeds of hell week (Adelaide’s death day 10/12 and her birthday 10/17) and surviving. I learn something new each year about how to best muster through, but at the end of the day, these anniversaries just suck. So, since my thoughts are never far from Adelaide right now anyway, I’ve decided to lean in and share her origin story of sorts – or at least the origin of her name and nickname - I’m assuming you all know where babies come from at this point.
I am about to cross a threshold I have been dreading since Adelaide passed: we will have been without her longer than we were with her. I have been trying to make sense of this inconceivable passage of time and the idea that I have been missing her longer than I was given to hold her. How does that make sense? And what even is time?
Nearly two years ago, as I was desperately looking for a literary agent to represent me, I wrote “IT WILL HAPPEN” on a piece of paper and hung it above my desk. Well, now it is finally happening and I am absolutely celebrating. But this time of year, leading up to Adelaide’s deathiversary, also has me remembering. One does not exist without the other and it is a delicate emotional balancing act as I hold both in my heart.
It doesn’t matter whether my schedule is packed or not, when I take time for myself: watching TV, reading a book, or taking a nap, I inevitably feel guilty. The to-do list is long and it is not going to take care of itself. #AmIRight? But then I made a remarkable, yet simple discovery about my to-do list which allowed me to change the way I think about my guilty pleasures.
Over the course of our lives, we gain (earn?) membership to various experiential clubs: the epilepsy club, for example. We don’t really want to be members, but that’s not taken into consideration at initiation. The shittiest club I’ve gained exclusive access to in my life is The Dead Kids Club. Now, you may think that the DKC sounds abrasive and dark, that it makes non-members a little uncomfortable which, if I’m honest, is kind of funny and kind of the point. Because sometimes we need a little dark humor to keep on, keeping on.
