Groping around in the pitch darkness, I couldn't find the doorway and wall that I just knew were inches from my face. I stopped my forward motion, determined to save myself from a painful collision in the early morning moments. As my hands moved around tentatively, searching for what seemed like empty air, I decided to finally pivot slightly 45 degrees and bam! There was the doorframe scarce inches from my face.
It had been there the whole time.
I just hadn't seen it because I had gotten turned around in the darkness.
Disoriented.
I sure hope that is what is happening to me right now because, boy, I feel lost in the darkness with potential pain all around.
And I am stopped, paralyzed, fearing the pain. Groping around in the darkness ahead.
******
Twenty five years ago, I was blessed to give birth to a beautiful baby girl. Transformative. Magical.
Fast forward twenty five years and here I am with thirteen such magical, treasured experiences as each of my darlings came into this world through me. Though years of horrid, reportable parenting exist, coupled with those are the good times: the cherished smiles and laughter; the memories; the discussions; the struggles; the growth--so much experiential abundance.
And then it started happening seven years ago...
No. Actually, it began twenty years ago, twenty years ago last April.
They started leaving.
Isaak's tragic death was painful beyond my previous comprehension, with a soul-blasting pain that dominated my emotional health for nineteen years. Unable to even process the magnitude of the brutal way he left existence, I was unable to simply grieve and say goodbye to my little boy.
And then this year enter Leah, my amazing child loss/trauma therapist, who unlocked that place in my soul that lived in terror and self-shame and let me grieve that loss.
Previous to this as my children have "flown the coop," to use that normalized expression, I somehow locked that pain of their departure in that same, blinded place I kept my grief over Isaak's loss and pretty much pushed it aside. I missed them, wrote to them, celebrated the times when I could rejoice with them and cry with them. I was still a part of their lives. But their absence? That was a knot that was too painful to be untied. When people asked, "Aren't you sad that they are gone?" I would rote reply, "Yes, I miss them. But I know that they would be unhappy staying with me and am grateful that they are owning their life and doing something with it."
As I have learned how to grieve--or let myself grieve--this year, I was surprised and overwhelmed with the backlash of emotion that came with the deep realization that Drew was gone, as he serves his church mission in Canada. And I was sad.
And then Lily left. And I was sad.
At first, it was overwhelming. But with help from my dear Leah, I learned to cry and cope. Cry and cope. And cry and cope some more, feeling the rich beauty that does coexist with the loss.
***********
So now I have had five of my darlings leave and rarely (if ever) coming home. Oh, my heart feels so big and so achy all at the same time, in a drippy kind of way.
(In all this, I am painfully aware of countless scores of people who yearn to have one child, much less thirteen. I know nothing I can say or do can make that right and my heart aches for them. I am grateful. However, sadness and pain still need to be acknowledged to be processed in a healthy way, so here goes...)
My kiddos move away. They are untouchable. Unhugable. I am so grateful for modern technology so that we may keep in touch with conversation and video. But part of my momma heart yearns to hold them and wish that things were as they were. Everyone together. Memories made. Bread broken. Tears shed. Burdens shared. Work shouldered.
************
And now it's Hyrum's turn.
Going forward into this upcoming separation, with eyes wide open, I feel like I did this morning--anticipating that painful encounter and desperately trying to avoid it. I am so sad. SOOOOOOO sad. Happy that he has a plan. Happier than if he were emotionally stuck in my basement, creating chaos and confusion as he sorts out his inner self...because then I know he would be miserable just as poor Drew was for a while. It is simply so hard to accept that it could be better for my children to be away from me than close to me!
I find myself being angry, separating myself from him emotionally already. Sabotaging the time we have together with my unsettled angst about this upcoming "bonk on the head," as it were. Piper is also joining him soon, eager to follow her life's path as she deliberately and competently moves toward her future goals at what feels like break-neck speed.
Do they all have to leave like this? All thirteen?
****************
You know, going back those twenty-five years to that first moment of motherhood, I realize that there was also pain. Immense pain. Back labor, misfired epidural, exhaustion. Somehow the beauty, joy and relief at the end made all the pain worth it.
Maybe that's why, in part, the next life is supposed to be so awesome. What a reunion that will be!
But also, perhaps, that is part of the reality of life: that with each moment of growth, transition--re-birth as it were--pain and beauty, joy and sorrow are meant to co-exist.
Can that be true? Can I find beauty in this upcoming loss?
Maybe it's also like labor...you have to focus on getting through the pain by taking deep breaths and shifting your perspective. The pain does not go away, but is somehow more manageable.
And I guess the only sanity-giving option is to hold onto the belief that like with bringing that new little one into this world, the end result will be worth it? But please forgive me if I scream a little and cry a lot through the current pain.
