Push & Pull
Push & Pull
I’m sitting on my living room couch as Youtube curates a lovely mix of Alabama Shakes, Nathaniel Rateliff & The Nightsweats, and Shakey Graves on the tv in the background. A fresh late-summer breeze is flowing through the house and I am just contemplating, once again, what I am capable of for today.
It’s been just over 7 months since the day that Fitz and I consider, “The Worst Day of Our Lives.” For many, our loss is something that exists in the past. For us, this loss exists in our everyday life.
We did not simply experience the death of our child. We lost all that goes along with it. The coos and first smiles in early infancy, the process of gaining a sleeping & eating rhythm, sitting up, rolling over, first ball game, diaper blowouts and, to be quite frank, everything that Millennial parents proudly boast about on social media.
Each day, we face reminder after reminder of the absence of the child we thought that we would be raising together. Some days, it is because of the explicit questions from those who don’t know what happened. Other days, it’s because we are trying to celebrate something else in our life and notice our empty hands.
Loving children is simply a part of who we are. A couple of weekends ago, we helped our friends with their annual garlic festival and of course, the children gravitated toward us. These children, specifically, we have had relationships with for years now. Whether it’s being friends of their parents or as their teacher. Of course we play, of course we laugh, of course we find joy in those moments.
We are pushed into laughter by the natural connection to children. We are pushed into distraction with work & travel. We are pushed into hyperfocusing on projects at the home or the family farm. We are pushed by the friends who still attempt to get us (mostly me) out of the house.
Yet, the gravitational pull of grief is not something that we can escape. Some days, I am here for the pushes and can even gain my own momentum alongside hope & acceptance, despite the pull. Other days, the pull envelopes me. It pulls me closer, as I am wrapped in the soft fleece of sadness, snuggled tightly with anger, and held by despair’s soft cushions.
While I wish that this push and pull had a rhythm like the cycles of the moon or the flow of the seasons, this rhythm can feel sporadic as it operates on such a larger scale. One that I can’t easily pin down in my day to day. This push and pull can’t quite be predicted. It exhausts me as I am constantly trying to see the big picture, but can’t seem to see past the snapshot of the moment.
When being pushed and pulled over and over, you’re faced with the choice to resist or flow with the forces. There’s always the part of me that imagines that one would be easier than the other, but they both exist with equal power. Resisting takes so much energy that I can’t guarantee that I have. Flowing with can sometimes lead to being tumbled further away from everything that you thought you knew. Is it possible to both resist and flow simultaneously? Where does the balance exist here?
The pull keeps me close to home these days as I barely navigate getting dressed and approaching the fraction of the workload that I used to be able to keep up with. The push of those who invite us out is a relief, as I no longer inhabit the energy to plan social engagements. However, every invite does not ever guarantee that I can feel up to whatever it is on the day of.
I can’t help but feel like the person who I once was no longer exists. The person who I am now has left a lot behind, with aspects of familiarity that remain. I am actively pushing things away that no longer have a place in my life while strategically pulling close, that which brings me nourishment & healing.
And yet, here I am clinging to other parts of me that are ready to be released, wishing that I could be that person once more. Wishing that the familiarity of my past hardships, joy, grief, or chaos would comfort me through this new and foreign healing journey.
It’s nauseating to think, actually, to know that the loss will always be with us. While time can make aspects “easier”, other things become more challenging. There are babies in our lives that were born days & weeks (before/after) from when Malcolm’s heart stopped. These children, at all ages, will always be a living reminder of the milestones, the experiences, and the person we do not have in our lives.
Both Fitz and I move forward into a new decade of life and while we both have so much to be grateful for and proud of, our lived experience is clouded by the crashing waves of grief pulling us down deep on some days, as we are pushed to the surface on others.
We frantically hang on to hope as we search for grace for ourselves amidst the turbulence of our existence. However, we are steadily reassured by the grace that others show us as we move through this since, they too, are being pushed and pulled in their own way.
