Mourning

Photo by Mikhail Nilov

They say there are seven stages of grief.

Actually, I’ve said that. Many times, to career transition clients over the years, that have lost their jobs and livelihoods and find themselves at square one.

Before becoming a Career Coach, I didn’t really think about mourning as a term used for anything but the processing of the death of a loved one. But through my profession, I have had so many discussions about the ways in which we experience grief and loss in our lives that go beyond death.

And yet, maybe in all of the various contexts, death is at the core.

Last night, when Matt and I were discussing how grateful we are for the love and joy in our lives, trying to soothe our aching hearts, I received a text from the group chat I have going with oncology moms I have met through our journey. Fellow warriors that have been battling it out on the 8th floor of BC Children’s Hospital with us, watching their babies fight for their lives.

The text was an “update”. That’s what oncology mom’s get practiced at – “updating”. But it wasn’t an update anyone wanted to read. Certainly, not to write.

The update stated that her little girl – one that Violet and I have deep emotions for – is dying.

Two days before, they had reviewed scans that had given them the impression she was finally, after two recurrences, in remission. Two days before, we had celebrated. Two days before, life was opening up and letting in the light.

And now, they are in hell.

It is hitting me hard, to say the least. This week, Violet wore a t-shirt to school that says, “Neuroblastoma picked the wrong girl.” It is a matching “uniform” that this particular mother had made for Violet, and her daughter, and another fellow warrior that have all been battling the same deadly version of this disease. The three girls donned them proudly only months before, full of hope. Of life. Of possibility.

Now the t-shirt sits on the floor, ready for the laundry, while Violet is at school, writing her ABCs, arguing with her friends, playing in the playground. And this little angel is, once again, hooked up to oxygen and TPN and pain medication, this time to keep her “comfortable” instead of saving her life.

What do you hook a mother up to in a time like this?

She isn’t the first one we have mourned. Violet has lost multiple peers through this journey. Precious children that have slipped from this world, battling to the last breath. Today, in fact, they are burying another – same exact disease. Same exact prognosis.

It’s almost too much to put on the page.

We process things through our own eyes. Our own priorities. Our own hearts. The empathy is so big it’s unbearable. It’s the reason I hid out in our room month after month, terrified to make any connections. These are children – mothers – we have fallen in love with. Have felt so much for. They are beautiful humans, precious children, that don’t deserve this fate. And they are also mirrors to our own fears and pain.

These children are also Violet – also examples of where this could have gone. Where this still could go. All of these children got better. And then it came back. Every. Single. One.

This is not over for us. It might never be. There will always be these stories there to scare us back to reality. To tease us with the possibility of the world’s most horrific pain. Losing a child.

I am an optimist. And more than that, I know my little girl. But I also know what little control I have over anything. I preach about how the only thing we can control is our attitude. Our perspective. But sometimes, even that feels entirely out of our hands.

This is hard to write. I want so desperately to color it in bright hues, to paint silver in it and around it and all over it. But sometimes, we just ache. We just hurt. We just scramble for any scrap piece we can find that soothes us.

I suspect, for me, this is stage four – the realization of the true magnitude of our loss. Lost time. Lost security. Lost finances and careers and schooling. Lost friendships. This kind of experience wipes the slate clean, in so many ways. You must rebuild from the complete rubble.

I haven’t wanted to let it all fall. I haven’t wanted to let it all crumble. But it has to. You can’t rebuild on a dilapidated building. You need solid ground. You need to clear the debris.

Today, I’m standing amid the embers. On my knees, actually, with ashes smudged and smeared across my face. I am wide open, raw and exposed.

I will remember. I will remember that we are on the winning side of things. The pain will subside and I will be able to hear, again, my own words – we are lucky. I am grateful. We are so, so blessed.

This blog has been many things – a way to “update”. A way to share the pieces of wisdom I have found that have been the gold in this pile of shit. But I also recognize it is a way of trying to be understood. I am always trying so hard to be understood. We all are. But I need to let that go. We can’t truly be. No one is living life through our eyes. Our skin. But there are overlaps – places where we find resonance that help us feel more connected, more human, more “ok”.

And I’m ok. If anything, I hope these words – this “exposure” – helps somebody else feel ok, too.