My life has been defined by a single moment. That moment separated my life into the before and the after–the then and the now.
Once spoken, those words distorted my reality. My world tilted, falling off its axis, spinning into a great abyss–and I fell, tumbling, lost, right along with it.
When I finally landed (the free fall took months), I found myself in a completely different place. The scenery had completely changed. The characters were different, skewed versions of the past, as if I had been dropped from one reality into a parallel one where things were similar, but not the same. It was all some how less. The edges were more jagged, the sky was dark and stormy, and all the lines seemed somehow blurred. Nothing made sense, nothing fit.
I didn’t even recognize myself anymore, let alone my husband who had also hit the ground as an entirely different person than the one I had married. Our marriage was different, more difficult. The love that we thought would last forever was worn down to one thread, but we clung to that thread. It was falling apart, but that thread kept us from being apart.
All my relationships changed. How could they not? Some stuck by me through it, but many more dropped away, disappearing in the face of my grief, for no one likes to be reminded of the ugly turns life can take.
I found myself in a House of Mirrors where everything was stretched out and distorted. My world was broken–I was broken. And I didn’t know how to fix it, if it even could be fixed.
Before those dreadful words that changed everything, I was an idealist. I believed the world was a beautiful place, and I believed that if I was kind and good, kindness and goodness would come my way. I was full of life and passion. God was good. Life was good. My sole desire was to love and be loved, and to make a difference in this world–to push back the suffering of the masses. I believed it was what I was meant to do.
But in the after, after that long heartbreaking road of watching the joy of my life get weaker and weaker, watching her struggle to swallow or even breathe, after seeing my husband breathe life back into her again and again–only to have the one time where it didn’t work, when my baby girl didn’t come back–after putting her tiny, beautiful little body in the cold, hard ground, I instead found myself in the ranks of the suffering. I had gone from trying to soothe the suffering of others to being a sufferer.
Instead of making a difference, I had all I could do to keep existing, to put one foot in front of another, to believe in the hope of a tomorrow that didn’t hurt, to believe that God was a God of love despite my little girl being in the cold, hard ground. Simply living took every effort of will that I was able to bring to bare.
With time, those steps became easier. With time, the idea of feeling happiness again moved from impossible, to improbable, to finally, one day, without being quite aware that it was happening, finding that happiness (or at least peace) started to seep back in and slowly nudge aside the pain.
Serena has been gone for thirteen years, and I am still a broken version of myself. The idealist is gone. I have been too well acquainted with the world and its suffering to ever go back to that person again. I am too well aware that suffering falls on the just and the unjust alike. This world is hard, sometimes even ugly.
But, I want to live in this world, the world that is, not the world that I wish would be, and so I’ve spent over a decade trying to make sense of this world we live in. My idealistic me got her undergraduate degree in cross cultural communications because I wanted to fix the injustice of the world. My broken me got her Masters degree in counseling psychology because I knew that I cannot stop the injustice of the world–but I might be able to help the broken people who live in that unjust world.
As I muddled through the aftermath of grief, my subsequent children, and all the normal mommy foibles compiled with the special mommy foibles that go along with a family post-loss, as well as the muddle of simply living life in this big, unreliable complex world that we live in, I attempt to apply my underlying belief in God, my understanding of the human psyche, and my hard won wisdom in a way that might not change the world, but might help us understand it, and ourselves, just a little bit better.
And so it is, that I find myself, in the midst of chauffeuring little people to little league and gymnastics, working full time, and trying to keep up with a house and all the normal middle of life sorts of struggles, writing a book tentatively titled “When the Movie Ends.” It’s a book about you, and a book about me. It’s a book about someone who finds herself in a life she didn’t expect to live–who expected more than the reality she finds herself in. It is about her journey of finding herself, who she really is, in the real world, not the fictitious one that our youthful idealism builds and believes in. And, it is a story about how, so often, we need to be lost before we can be found.