Year Two: Emergence

Here we are, a couple of weeks into Year Two.

Year One was the black hole. Oddly, it was also a year of anticipation: how are we going to handle Caroline's birthday/my birthday/my due date/Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's/Valentine's Day/April 18/Shannon's birthday/Easter/Mother's Day/Father's Day/other celebrations/Independence Day/Weston's birthday/the entire month of July/Weston's death anniversary/other days I can't remember right now/every single day without Weston?

Year One was about survival. We did it, somehow. We now have answers to the above questions, because we have lived through those days. Now I know what to expect. It's a relief.

However, I am not dreading Christmas 2013 any less than I dreaded Christmas 2012. Weston's second, fifth, and tenth birthdays will not be any easier than his first. There is no more anticipation. From here on out, we simply experience every single holiday, every single celebration, every single DAY without Weston. For a very, very long time. Life goes on, in the worst way.

Year One was a fog. It was desperate. It was unknown. It was oh so lonely.

But fog doesn't seem real because it hides everything. To walk through fog is to experience suspended reality. The fog-walker can remain oblivious to what's outside the fog.

I'm emerging from the fog. That's the good news, I suppose. But emergence is always painful. Weston is not out here, in the sunlight that hurts my eyes, either.

The first Year Two milestone is coming up: Caroline's birthday. Honestly, if Weston had lived, I don't know if we would have thrown her a party last year when she turned three, beyond something very small with immediate family. He would have still been in the NICU and still very tiny. But he died less than a month before her birthday. We were desperate to give her a good memory in the wake of such disaster, so we pulled a birthday party together (with a lot of help).

If Weston had lived, he would not have been at Caroline's party last year: he would have either been in the NICU or still in my belly. We threw her a party in the middle of the fog, and somehow it went off without a hitch. She still talks about her "ladybug party." I'm so glad we did it.

Now, our little lady is turning four. We are throwing her a party again, and I am so excited to celebrate her. For the last couple of weeks, I have been picking up party supplies here and there, and now I'm stressing about pulling everything together.

How I wish that cake-baking, house-cleaning, and pinata-stuffing were my biggest stressors about my daughter's birthday party. But the harsh reality of Weston not being there with his big sister finally confronted me last night. In either if-he-had-lived scenario, whether premature or on-time birth, he would be at the party, probably crawling, maybe clawing at the cake that I wouldn't be letting him eat yet.

And I realized: this is never going to stop. Weston won't get to meet my extended family at my cousin's wedding next month. He won't be toddling around the Christmas tree. He won't give me a wet Mother's Day kiss next May. He won't run around at his second birthday party next summer. This is what Year Two, Year Three, Year Fifty will look like. THAT is a harsh reality. In a way, I think I prefer the fog.

Paradoxically, Year One ended beautifully. I'm trying to hold onto that beauty in the ashes. But the beginning of Year Two has brought fresh difficulty. And I just desperately miss my boy, more than ever. Time does not heal; it simply brings a different perspective. So I'll designate Year Two as the Year of Emergence, and time will determine where it takes me.