The notification pops up on my screen: “Jake got married this weekend. How are you holding up?”
How am I holding up? My first thought is to respond with a cheerful, “I’m fine! I’m happy for him and wishing him all the best!” But then, a wave of emotion washes over me, leaving me gasping for breath.
My former son-in-law is starting a new chapter in his life, but all I can think about is the bittersweet memory of a day 18 years ago when he stood by my beloved daughter, Mia, declaring, “I take you, Mia Taylor, in sickness and in health.” And he truly did for two and a half years. He remained by her side, watching the vibrant, witty woman he loved fight a battle against cancer, enduring her transformation until her final breath. He gave up a part of his youth during that time without ever complaining.
So, how do I feel now? I’m happy for him, yet deeply sad for myself. It’s as if I’m losing yet another connection to Mia, another person who knew and cherished her alongside me. I feel isolated.
Over the past 16 years since Mia’s passing, many friends and family members have moved on, embarking on new adventures. Like others who were part of “Mia’s Team,” Jake has the opportunity to breathe again, to laugh freely, and to embrace life without the oppressive shadow of death looming overhead.
In the last four years, I’ve had glimpses of joy—moments when colors seem vibrant again, when I can breathe deeply and feel alive. However, those moments are sporadic. Seeing others “move on” makes me cling to what’s familiar, unable to release my connection to Mia, my essence, my breath. I recognize that I, too, must find a way to carry on or risk a slow demise, left behind. These loved ones are honoring Mia by living fully, something she would want for them. If I allow myself to remain stagnant, then cancer would claim yet another life, and that’s not what Mia would have wished for me.
So how do I truly feel? Honestly, I feel envious. I feel lost. I wish I had never faced such a devastating loss. I long for the freedom to breathe deeply, to laugh heartily, to escape the unrelenting shadow that always lurks in my mind.
If I dig deeper, I also feel abandoned. Does no one else miss Mia as much as I do? Is anyone else grappling with the immense sense of loss that fills my days? This profound sadness can strike unexpectedly, catching my breath and disrupting moments of joy or courage. I often retreat into myself, back into shadows where the world feels dull and gray. It’s a safe space where I can grieve alone, where I can cry without pretense. But this “safe” place is slowly draining my vitality. I want to choose life.
Yet, choosing life comes with anxiety. I find myself fearful of facing another significant loss, questioning whether I could endure such pain again. I’ve become overly cautious, almost to the point of insisting my grandkids wear helmets even when getting up at night to use the bathroom! My husband jokes about my fear of the large rock perched high above our home, worrying about it tumbling down and crushing us. When I hear about earthquakes in distant lands, I can’t help but imagine the walls of our home shaking and burying me. “What are the odds of any of this happening?” my husband asks. I know they’re small. But the odds of losing a child before their time were low too—and yet it happened.
I remind myself that healing and grieving don’t adhere to a timeline. My love for Mia is singular and unique, which is why I often feel alone in my grief. But my memories of her are weightless yet comforting; they accompany me wherever I go. Those who loved Mia will never forget her. In my heart, I continue to nurture our connection, so instead of thinking of “moving on” as leaving her behind, I can reframe it as “carrying on with her.”
When I hear that Jake got married, my heart swells with gratitude that he can carry on, embracing life with a renewed sense of joy. It’s brave of him to love deeply again, free from the shadows that once loomed.
The wedding announcement has stirred feelings of sadness and loss, but perhaps by processing these emotions, I can give myself permission to join Jake and others in “carrying on.” This doesn’t mean I’m letting go of Mia; it signifies that as I forge ahead, she will be with me, encouraging me to breathe, to laugh, and to love. She would want that for me.
So, how am I doing? Outwardly, I may say, “I’m fine!” But internally, I remind myself, “One step at a time. Carrying on. Thank you for caring.”
If you’re navigating your own journey of loss and healing, consider exploring more resources like this insightful post on how to cope with grief. And if you’re interested in options for at-home insemination, Make a Mom offers reputable kits for your needs. Additionally, for a comprehensive look at fertility and pregnancy resources, Johns Hopkins Fertility Center is an excellent option to consider.
In summary, navigating loss is a personal journey, one where reframing our approach can provide comfort and clarity. Instead of moving on, we can seek to carry on, ensuring that our loved ones remain an integral part of our lives.
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