It's been almost 5 years since we said goodbye to our angel. Most days, I do ok. Nowadays I really only get very emotional when I visit her grave, or if I let myself get too far inside my own head, thinking about how unfair it all is, and letting myself relive the emotions I felt that night. I went on to have the sweetest little girl, and I know I will see Kayla again one day. So most days I am ok. Today is not one of them.
I've always said that if I have to, I can find a silver lining in losing Kayla. It doesn't make it ok, it doesn't erase the pain, but sometimes you've just got to find that silver lining. You just have to or you'll go insane. My silver lining is that I've been given a unique gift that only parents of angels know, and that's the ability to appreciate and love your living children every hour of every single day.
Don't get me wrong, I am human like everyone else, and there are plenty of times that she drives me insane. But I am content in knowing I can love my child more than life itself, but still want to sell her at times when she's being impossible. But I feel like when you've been on the other side, when you've heard those crushing words, "your daughter will not survive", it makes it possible to set aside daily stress, and really appreciate what you do have, and to know how very lucky you are.
But with that knowledge and appreciation comes the curse, and that is knowing that it is far too easy to lose them and it can happen in the blink of an eye. I don't sit around shaking and hugging myself, I don't lay in bed all day, unable to accomplish anything due to the fear. I live my life and most of the time I can keep it at bay, and if you were standing right next to me you'd never know I'm experiencing it, but it's always there. That fear of something happening to your child, that worry that you've been too lucky, you've been happy for too long and the happy police is going to come take it away. For the most part I have my shit together, but those moments are always there, lurking....it's the waiting for Emily to get home when one of her grandparents drives her. It's that silent sigh of relief when she walks in the door, safe and sound. It's those first noises you hear in the morning over the monitor, telling you she is awake, and indeed ok.
But some nights the fear rears its ugly head more than usual. I was reading a post on facebook where parents were invited to say the names of their children that they are missing this Christmas, and I just sat there reading the names, crying. Crying for them, crying that they were all so young when their lives ended...crying for their parents who will never ever be the same. But selfishly, I'm crying for myself, and feeling that, even if only for a few minutes, that debilitating fear of something happening to the precious little life you would literally do anything for. I am not this shattered person, it doesn't consume my life. But I am still, and I think I will always, be waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Having lost a child gives you this blessing of super human ability to appreciate the good, even when you're screaming mad. But it's also a curse, giving you the knowledge of how easily that good can turn bad.
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