We seem to be doing well…
Dan said something really eloquent last night. I was lamenting the gravity of our loss, feeling guilty for not appreciating the innumerable joys in my life (great husband! rock solid relationship! fulfilling job! health, house, and friends and family who love and support us!), and just furious at the fact that people often tell me I "seem to be handling it really well". I can now get through a day or two at a time feeling like I've accomplished something, but it never goes away. You never "get over" it, and no damnit, I'm not handling it well. I know those words are supposed to be uplifting and encouraging, but they almost always strike annoyance and feelings of isolation in my heart, because the well-intentioned soul who uttered them has no idea the guilt I feel every day, the sense that the world is collapsing and the terror that it could happen again.
I have a glimpse of understanding with Dan's struggle, too. Trauma changes you. It's something you can never forget, and in the case of losing someone you love, something you don't want to forget. Dan experienced trauma by the boatload in his Army days and he "seems to be handling" losing Isla better than me, but I know that's just because he's just had more experience with learning to live with it.
Anyway, last night Dan said that Isla taught us all about living in the moment, and all the lessons about love and family and life and death, in a tiny and brief little package. It's as though we got a lifetime worth of knowledge and experience in the span of 6 months. I would never wish to impart the same experience on others, but a dark little corner of my mind wants people to experience it just so it doesn't feel so lonely, and so they know the right things to say.
The task we're faced with is acceptance, which is monumental and maybe impossible. It will take years, or decades, if it ever even comes. I can't imagine "getting over it", so for now, it's a small victory that we're gainfully employed, haven't lost ourselves or each other to dark thoughts or substance abuse or any of the dozens of other things they warn you about. Getting out of bed in the morning is a victory, so my acceptance for now is that even a small baby step--like holding Isla after two weeks of being bedridden with cardiac lines a year ago--is a step in the right direction. I'll take it!
