Elsewhere

And, just like that, we have hit another rough patch. Although our current struggle is independent from losing Weston, life is not compartmentalized. Everything is inextricably intertwined. Losing Weston makes this struggle worse, and vice versa.

Surprisingly, though, my mind has been elsewhere this week. It's been a big week, medically speaking.

On Tuesday, a friend who lost a child had surgery to enable her to have another child.

Also on Tuesday, someone I know only slightly had fetal surgery in another state to improve her unborn child's genetic condition. She has other children and will spend the rest of her pregnancy on bed rest. And the complicated pregnancy is only the beginning.

And on Wednesday, a dear friend's baby girl underwent a major, major 10-hour surgery.

In one way or another, I can relate to parts of each of these women's stories. I too have lost a child. I too have spent a pregnancy in bed, petrified for the baby growing inside of me. And I too have feared for my child in intensive care. I spent the week on edge, praying for these women and their babies.

None of these surgeries occurred in Arizona. I couldn't visit bedsides or hold anyone's hand. (And it would have been really weird to show up at the bedside of the woman I hardly know!) As various times this week, my heart stopped for these people.

One at a time, I learned that each surgery was successful. Sometimes I cried with relief.

(These surgeries are not the end of the road for these families. They are at or near the beginning of long journeys, each of them, and could use your prayers and positive thoughts.)

I have never stopped caring about the struggles that others are facing. Well, I don't care about anyone's "struggles" anymore; my priorities are forever changed. But anyway, for the first time in post-Weston memory, my current torment was pushed aside by my thoughts and prayers for these women and children. Of course, these surgeries took me back to last year. I couldn't think of them without thinking of Weston and missing him even more acutely. But I forgot about my other problems.

There is unlimited potential for grieving parents: the potential to one day integrate the loss of our children beautifully into our lives and the lives of those around us. The ability to see beyond our own loss and sit with other hurting people, no matter the source of that hurt. The ability to rejoice with others' happiness, instead of begrudging them. The ability to see beauty in everything and everyone. The ability to abandon all judgment of others. The ability to be present for someone else without feeling the need to trumpet our own loss.

I am inching very slowly along this path. I was surprised myself to realize how little I thought of our current problem over the past couple of days. Not only does obsessing do nothing to change or improve my current state, not obsessing helps me be a better friend. I couldn't have done this a year ago. (But that's OK. One year ago, my son had just died. I was doing well to just get out of bed and eat something.)

It's far from perfect, though. Now that the surgeries are over and the immediate dangers have passed, I am back to my own current struggle. And that's OK too. It's legitimate. It's unfair. It's something I cannot share on the blog right now. I am only a year out from losing my child and now in the middle of another terrible thing (it's less terrible, but it still really sucks). I still need to take care of myself (and I still need help with this endeavor!).

So, I guess my heart is able to go elsewhere sometimes, but it always comes back. Someday, I hope that my heart can be in both places simultaneously. Regardless, Weston goes with me, wherever I go.

P.S. Please don't think you can't share your troubles with me. The truth is, I will always struggle. Losing a child does that to people. But I can still be a good friend, and I can still listen. If I'm normally someone you'd call in a crisis, please keep calling (not that I'm wishing a crisis on you. You know what I mean.). And, please share your good news too. I mean it with all my heart.