Every day is difficult. Every day my husband and I struggle to get through it. Every day we feel more and more isolated as our new reality sets in. The fog comes and goes, but the moments of clarity are frightening and bleak. The fog is comforting, but so confusing. The clarity is painful and so exhausting. Every day we cry. Every day we ache. Every day we grieve.
Then there are the days when you get a little something extra. Someone asks, “How many kids do you have?” Someone asks, “Didn’t you have twins?” Someone tells you, “Don’t worry. Eventually you’ll be fine.” None of these comments or questions by themselves is particularly earth-shattering to me anymore, but they still take my breath, stop my heart, and pain my soul. I flinch, but I am getting better at hiding that. One at a time, I can handle these interactions that are never intended to be painful for me. But they are painful, and difficult, and exhausting. When you start adding up these little storms I have to weather, they start to wear me down. These sorts of days, it gets too difficult to pretend to be human. These sorts of days force me to draw back the curtain a bit and show to whomever may be nearby a peek at the darkness inside. It makes them feel uncomfortable. It makes me feel alone.
Then there are days like tomorrow. Tomorrow is March 13th. For most, it is a Monday. For some who know us well, tomorrow means Elbow is, and Bug would have been, 18-months-old. For my husband and I, it is also the day in 2015 when we found out we were having twins. On days like these, and there are many, my husband and I struggle with the normal every grief. We push through the something extras that come our way. Then we manage to keep breathing and continue to function with the added pain of constantly thinking about what might have been and what will never be.
So the next time you’re trying to help me out or give me advice, make sure you’re not in fact just telling me what to do.
I am doing as much as I possibly can every second of every day, even if it just looks like I am breathing.