I was worried about this flower. But apparently it didn’t know it was supposed to die.
The only thing harder than missing Olivia has been seeing Heather miss her. No mother should be separated from her baby. No mother should have to feel a permanent attachment, this invisible cord connecting her, to a grave 3 miles away. They both sleep in the middle of the night, connected. That time that used to be Olivia’s and ours is now just an ache, an emptiness, and we have this illogical urge to go get Olivia’s body. We know she’s not in the grave. Maybe she’s even closer, I really don’t know. But her little body is there. And aside from the toys and clothes and burp cloths still laying around the house, that’s the only thing we have left. My wife’s heart is broken. The beautiful thing is, I know she would do it again in a heartbeat. Heather chose a broken heart. That’s the best example of love I’ve ever seen.
Olivia is like this flower. She didn’t know the protocol of living life. She just grew however she did until the end.
I think we’ll be like this flower too. I no longer care to grow in a straight, typical line. Even if I did, what control do I really have? I can’t stop my child from dying - I can’t protect her. I can’t stop my wife’s heart from breaking. This is just life, broken hearts, funerals, light saber fights, never-ending Frozen music and all.
Today I will breathe in. I’ll breathe out. I’ll allow for the pain and anger and confusion and discrepancies. I’ll trust that we’ll continue to grow, whatever that looks like.
We’re still here. We’re breathing out, we’re breathing in. And maybe life is still ahead…