I swear that at some point, my posts will go back to being the random, funny ones they used to be...but for now, I just write whatever pops into my head. I feel lots has been weighing heavy on my mind as of late.
Through the wonderful world of Facebook, I was introduced to a book. You know those creepy, stalker type ads that suddenly show up on the side of your Facebook page? Clearly we are being monitored, as the second I buy tampons, I receive ads about Essure or Midol. This particular ad caught my interest, as it was about a book a mother wrote, regarding the loss of her child. The title is, "Rare Bird" and for some reason, I felt drawn to read it. Now I know I am fortunate and did not lose my child, but that didn't take away the strong urge I had to buy it and peruse it's pages.
Once it arrived, I quickly began reading it. As expected, it was loaded with religious information and yet contained so much raw emotion and real ness. I haven't even finished it yet, but I instantly felt a connection with this woman and her story.
Then the dreams started. For several weeks now, I have had several similar dreams at night. Some at nearly faded memories of our time in the hospital, but there is one in particular that has been scaring the hell out of me. In this dream, all the days and time since we were discharged from the hospital on May 8th, up until today, have been a dream. I've made it all up. I have simply imagined what our life would look like and how the next few months would have played out. In this dream, Harlow did not beat the odds. I wake up and none do these past 6 months has really happened. I'm still in the hospital and the news of her passing is still fresh and intense.
I hate this dream. I hate it because it scares the living shit out of me. It makes the alternative and possible outcomes too real for me. It makes me feel guilty for thinking I am allowed to be relieved that my daughter dying was just a dream, when so many other parents cannot wake up from their nightmares. It makes me question why I was spared such tragedy, but not for one second willing to give it back.
I'm not sure if I'm entitled to feel some sort of PTSD from the whole Harlow deal. So many others have faced far worse and never admit to their suffering. Who am I to think that what I am now experiencing deserves such a strong aftermath diagnosis?! Maybe what is happening. To me is simply the grief seeping out. Finally.
Last night, Blake and I made the very unwise decision to watch the movie, "Fault In Our Stars." WARNING: if you are having a crappy year, do NOT watch this! If you are having a fantastic year, do NOT watch this. The story is based on a teenage girl who is dying from cancer. Not at all my situation, I know, but so many parts of the movie touched too close to home. The mother crying, saying how if her daughter died, she wouldn't be a mother anymore. Gulp. I said those same words in the hospital and felt the same feeling. Different circumstances, but the same fear and anguish of that possibility. Again, I am not putting myself in the same category as those who have lost their child. I don't want to. The days and weeks of uncertainty were plenty for me and although we got off easy, it was enough to make me fully aware of the consequences.
Harlow has been taking steps on her own. Not full on walking yet, but every day she is getting more confident. Some days she will try over and over again. Other days, she doesn't even entertain the idea. But it's progress. I'm so sorry for all those parents out there who never get to witness the aftermath. Who never get to relish in the second chance. Who never get to wake up from the reoccurring nightmare of losing a child. Is my life a dream life? No way. But I am humbled, afraid and very thankful that when my sleep shakes me to my core, I get to wake up and realize, it was just a dream.
