Positively February: Day 1

Well February is here!  I've looked at so many positive sayings and thoughts since losing Preston, and so many of them touched me and helped me heal as I reflected upon them.  I hope that by sharing some of these, you find some healing too.

I found this positive thought, and it seems to be perfect for starting us off:

Get up, dress up, show up & never give up

One of the hardest things after losing your child is just getting up and going about your day.  Your routine has just been shot to hell and not only are you emotionally shattered but you are also disoriented. Nothing seems real.  Nothing makes sense.  Time seems to stand still but the clock keeps on ticking.

This phrase reminds me that of my new motto: one day at a time, one step at a time.  It takes a lot of willpower to get up every day, especially those first couple months.  Just getting up, out of bed, is a step taken towards the healing path.  If it's all you can do for weeks, or months, consider it an accomplishment.  It truly is.

When you feel up to it, take the next step and get dressed.  Do your hair, or make-up.  If you are up for it, all of it.  Taking these small steps, one at a time, will help you build a new routine.  It'll be difficult the first times, but it'll get easier with time, and repetition.  I strongly believe that routine helps with establishing a healthy healing path.  It gives your mind something to expect, something to concentrate on.  It gives your body a pattern to follow, and your body needs the routine too.

I will take the phrase literally and say that the next step is showing up, though it doesn't have to be.  Throw yourself back into social situations when you feel up for it.  It will be difficult and being in a crowd can be filled with triggers - moments or things that remind you of the loss, the pain and what you once had.  Showing up can mean telling yourself you will go, with an open ended option to leave at anytime.  It can mean trying to go, but turning around when you are halfway there.  One day, you will make it to the door and walk through.  And it'll feel okay.  The triggers won't be as intense.  One small step at a time, is all you have to do.

Never give up.  I don't have a choice to give up, life didn't stop even if it feels like it did.  The first weeks, months were incredibly difficult.  Difficult really doesn't begin to explain how painful it was to go through.  It's still "difficult", but I suppose the pain is less intense.  This doesn't mean I love my son less than I did 10 months ago.  It just means that my heart and mind have come to accept what has happened.  Doesn't mean I like it.  It doesn't mean I want to accept it.  It doesn't mean that any morning is easy to awaken from.  I've come to appreciate everything in my life a lot more though, and that's a blessing.  Not something I asked for.  It came at a high price.  I'd exchange this appreciation back for my son any day.

The lesson here is that we all have survival in us.  It's in our blood, because really when you have no other choice, your body and your mind will go into survival mode - as long as you allow yourself to it.  Just take it a moment at a time.  Survival isn't a race.  It's not a competition.  It's about overcoming the worse possible thing that can happen to you, and finding a way to continue on.  For me, it's been appreciating the blessing that Preston was in my life, for the short time he was with us.  It's been sharing my son's smile with the world.  It's been sharing my experience, in the hopes of helping someone.  And I'm proud of my son for taking me down this path.  His smile reminds me every day that happiness exists, even in the darkest of times.  You just have to take it a day, or a moment at a time.

Routine

It isn't always easy to find a picture which fits my subject for the day.  Sure I can always use a picture of Preston but I only have a limited supply of those, and I prefer to stretch them out,  I thought I'd use this picture today, that of my cat, Calex, taking a snooze... because to me routine equals comfort.  Additionally it also equates to security and to a certain extent, normalcy.

I've been in and out of a routine since Preston was born.  Our routine was always being adjusted as Preston grew bigger.  His meals became less frequent.  His awake time became more frequent and for longer periods of time.  He began sleeping more at night.  3 months after his birth, I returned to work, and again, there were adjustments to our routine.  I picked him up from daycare 3 times a week.  I was getting the hang of it though.  Get ready in the morning for work.  Spend 15-20 minutes with Preston.  Go to work.  Work.  Pick-up Preston.  Feed Preston.  Make dinner & eat.  Play with Preston.  Feed Preston.  Rock Preston to sleep.  Rinse & repeat and plug in other weekly activities like groceries, dishes, etc.

When we lost Preston, routine went out the window.  There was nothing routine about our life anymore.  Routine had been deleted from our world.  I feel like it was non-existent for a while.  Every day was new, different and filled with different emotions.  There was a large hole in our lives, in our hearts.  There still is, but we've learned to adapt.  We've created a brand new routine and little by little, we tweak it to make it feel like we are normal people, even if we are not.

Routine brings comfort and security because I don't have to think about the future, and what could possibly go wrong next.  I don't have to anticipate the worse case scenarios, though, I don't know that it could get much worse than it already has gone.  That security of knowing, tomorrow is a work day, and I'll be busy until I get home from work, is soothing and a time of day that I know I can rest my mind from missing my son.

It was wonderful to be on vacation.  Going to bed and waking up whenever I pleased.  No need to make dinner, or do chores.  No phone calls to take.  To bills to pay.  No constant work during the day.  And the reminders of Preston in Vegas were few and far between, probably not a bad thing.  I don't want to associate Vegas with Preston.  At the same time, I didn't enjoy the lack of signs from Preston, reminders of my son.  However, I think it gave my mind and my heart a well deserved break after a tumultuous 8 months.

And now we are back.  Wake up at 5:00 and get ready for work.  Leave the house at 6:00.  Start working at 7:30 until 4:00.  Commute back home.  Clean the kitchen and make dinner.  Watch a bit of TV and hang out with hubby.  Bedtime.  Rinse and repeat.  Sound similar to your life?  Yeah, it probably does.  That factor makes us like normal people, brings that normalcy feeling to our lives.

Add the hole that exists in our lives and it becomes apparent that we unfortunately aren't normal.  I'd give anything for normal.  To fade into society.  Silence often surrounds me; on the train, at night, during my lunch break.  During those ever present moments of silence, I think of my son.  Of what could have been.  I remember his smile, and coos but I will never see and hear them again.  And then, it is morning again, and the routine brings me comfort again, as I am not forced to sit in a chair and think about my loss for every second of every day.  Routine is a welcome escape which enables me, to savor the moments I spend thinking about my son.  I may not be consciously thinking of him all day long, but he is never far from my thoughts and always, always and forever in my heart.

Does routine bring you comfort too?  If you don't have a set routine, do you think it would be helpful in your journey of grief?  If you aren't living through a loss, does routine help you with certain aspects of your life?