"Moving On"

Over the last several months, many well intentioned people in my life have told me that it is time to move on. I always wonder when people say this to me what reaction they’re anticipating, usually imagining that they expect it to be something along the lines of:

“Hmmmm… you’re right, move on huh?

I never even thought of that.

 Gee thanks! I’ll give that a try!”

Okay, so that was sarcastic and uncalled for, I know. The fact of the matter is that those who are grieving don’t choose how quickly they heal. Actually, there is no part of grief that is by choice. 


I didn’t choose to have a child born terminally ill. 
I didn’t choose to fall in love with her, to let her huge spirit envelop me and to believe in her ability to beat this. 
I didn’t choose to be put into the impossible role of decision maker when it came to treatment plans. 
I didn’t choose to feel a part of me die right along with her. 
I didn’t choose any of these things anymore than I can choose how long it takes my heart, mind and soul to mend. 


I, like any other sane human being, would like nothing more than to be surrounded by joy. To see my dreams realized and feel the warmth of happiness. To have children and watch them grow. Believe me when I say that I wanted those things yesterday, and the week before that, and the months before that - it is getting my soul to sync up with my desires that is proving to be such difficult and taxing work.

One of the things that most people don’t realize about grief is how incredibly exhausting of a process it is. I have been in this fight, for lack of a better word, for over seven months, on the heels of forty two weeks of pregnancy, an emergency c-section with no time allowed for healing, and twenty eight days of round the clock panic and life and death decision making. It takes time to recover from this. How long? That is for God to decide, even I don’t know. What I do know is that each morning I wake up and offer whatever my best is for that day. Some days I even surprise myself. On others I come up short. 


Each day I try to honor my child, my husband, my family and myself while looking towards the future, but sometimes, in trying to accomplish even a fraction of what I set out to do, my energy is sucked dry. Missing someone is tiresome. There is no rhyme or reason to the ebb and flow of emotions that the bereaved feel: sadness, anger, hopefulness followed closely thereafter by hopelessness, guilt, dismay; but one constant in the process is just how endless the cycle can seem.

For months I have been hearing about this magic pill, this “cure” called moving on. I have been trying to figure out exactly what moving on means, how to utilize moving on, and where I should be moving on to? To me, moving on implies leaving something behind, and leaving any of Peyton behind, even the painful parts, is not an option. I am sure it seems simple enough to those who say it - those who don’t know the feeling of tumbling unexpectedly from the top of the world - don’t know what it is to look in the mirror and no longer recognize yourself - don’t know what it is to try to rub away the lasting empty pain that only a bereaved parent can feel in their arms, but for me, there is no moving on. 

There will never be a day when this loss is not ingrained in me, never be a time when Peyton is not my first born child, or when her absence from our everyday lives isn't felt. I cannot move on, as so many have suggested, I can only move with. And for now, that is what I am exhaustingly working towards - trying to find a way to live this life, to find joy in it once again and to see our dreams fulfilled with Peyton. 
With the memory of her.
With that little spirit.
With her unguarded love.
And even with the unrelenting pain of her loss.