Functioning as a fatalist
It's hard to believe that tomorrow marks the two year anniversary of Isla's death. In some ways it feels like it happened yesterday, but in other ways it feels like it's been forever.
Despite all the joys of our "new" life with baby Enzo, the loss of Isla's life is equally heavy on my heart, every morning when I wake up. I still get asked several times each week something in reference to her because of Lorenzo's presence, usually whether he is my first or only child. It's a strange sensation to dress him in clothes she once wore and watch him thrive and outgrow them so quickly.
The first time I took Lorenzo outside, he was about three hours old and we were leaving the birth center. It didn't register for me until the following morning, when I was holding him and opened the back door to the patio to let the dogs out. I walked out into the sunshine and that's when it hit me--I have my child, in my arms, standing in my own backyard. It was a tearful realization, but like many firsts with her big brother, it's initially felt with more of a renewed sense of grief for things she didn't experience than for joy of experiencing them with him. After things become habitual, and the initial bite of missing sharing the experience with Isla subsides, I am in awe of how normal everything feels raising her little brother.
I try to hold close the single most important lesson I learned from Isla: to remain present, to not worry about the future or focus on the past. When I am feeding him, I don't scroll through my phone or watch TV, but really try to just focus on his big eyes gazing at my face and warm little body in my arms. When he's hollering inconsolably, I try to close my eyes and just listen to figure out what he needs and how I can help. When we're hanging out on his activity mat I try not to think about what laundry needs to get done or what I want to make for dinner, because all that other stuff pales in comparison to this amazing little goofball in front of me. I'm not always successful, but when I glance across the living room and see the big photo we have of Isla smiling like a goon, I am reminded to live in the moment.
The precious weeks at home with newborn Enzo flew by way too fast, and now I'm back at work. I have pictures of Isla everywhere in my office, and it feels like stepping back into a time capsule. I don't know when the right time is to replace a photo of her in a frame with a photo of him, but it certainly doesn't feel right yet.
Sometimes I catch myself doing things sort of as an emotional insurance policy. I'll want to take a picture or a video when it doesn't seem natural (like when Dan is changing Enzo’s diaper while he hollers in protest), because if we were to lose Enzo, I would want documentation of every part of his life, every mood, and every cry. That's the first thing that pops into my mind--that everything has to be captured, especially the mundane, not necessarily because I'll have the time or desire when he's older to scroll through zillions of photos or hours of video, but just in case he is taken from us and this is all we have. I know how messed up that sounds but it’s what I feel.
I already know how living in the "now" makes it difficult to remember specifics. I don't remember how the top of Isla's head smelled, or what faces I could make or sounds I could produce to make her smile. I hate that I can't recall those details without taking to other people or watching videos of her. So sometimes I feel that I'm stuck in this balance between living in the present and preparing for an uncertain future. I know there are no guarantees in life and I know how fragile life is. I think after suffering such an enormous loss, some corner or my mind is always going to think fatalistically. I feel there will always be things in life that I can't control, and I just need to let go of worrying about it. I'm not afraid of SIDS or horrible diseases or terrible accidents--they are things that exist that I regard with sort of a strange, detached objectivity. I hope they never cross my path, but if they do, there's nothing I can do to prevent them (I'm talking outside of common sense, acting safely and getting him the best care possible) except love on Enzo now and document everything. Letting go of worry about these things is sort of empowering. I know firsthand that imagining the worst outcome doesn't prevent it happening or prepare you to deal with it, so I choose to leave those scenarios out of my mind entirely. It doesn’t lessen the joy of the present, and that’s how I know I’m “functioning” and working through my grief in a healthy way.
Anyway, tomorrow we will spend the day as a family, figuring out how we can include Enzo in commemorating Isla’s life and hopefully creating a new tradition of remembrance. We’ll be thinking of all of our family and friends who are sharing in our love for sweet baby Isla.
