Synaptic misfires

Lately, it seems as though my life, as well as the lives of many of those around me, is in a state of confusion and change. I fear that this summer, much like the previous, will be gone and its memories devoid of the joys that a long awaited summer should bring.

I gave last summer to a project at work that completely encompassed my personal and professional life. It feels like I have given this summer the same fate, with the added bonus of total emotional upheaval. However, as I have seen recently, there are many times when, just as your life is seemingly on the brink, you find that every emotion you have given yourself over to is not nearly poignant enough.

There is a moment, right before you tell someone bad news–awful news, hurtful news, news that neither of you want to know or acknowledge. A moment when you both realize the awfulness of the situation, all the while not entirely knowing the consequences. In this moment, you cannot breathe, you cannot move, you are riveted, awaiting the telling. Your body feels as though it is being pinned to the earth with a force you cannot comprehend. Time stops. Noise stops. The earth itself discontinues its arc around the galaxy. And there is silence. Infinite silence. But, despite it all, you have already crossed the threshold of no return. There is no turning back. What has begun must be finished. And you take a breath–a weighted, ragged, breath–and say it. And then your future awaits.

I feel like this pinnacle is where I and many of my closest, dearest, friends are living. On the tip of the knife. Awaiting the fall. Awaiting the answer. Awaiting the relief and the healing process to come.

A very dear friend of mine recently lost the child he and his family were eargerly anticipating at only 15 weeks gestation. I cannot help but remember a recent time when my sister-in-law lost her child at 18 weeks. I can only imagine that my friend is experiencing all of the typical emotions attached to the grieving process as well as many, many more. Emotions related to how, and why, and promises and lives unmet.

I remember watching a child–a tiny, newly formed child, barely given to this world and mostly in-between it–fight for breath as nurses and doctors looked on. The professionals that we rely upon in life-and-death situations, placating, saying “there is no pain” and “they do not know” and “they’re just too small to live”. No breathing tube will fit. No NICU will help. They are just too small. Too perfect for this world. So we must say hello and goodbye.

We get to hold them and fall in love with them. We get to see their faces, their eyes, their fingers and toes. Their suffering is real–despite what those around us try to say–it is apparent that, yes, they are alive, and they are strong, and fighting to be alive. And there is solace in that. A tiny solace that they want to be with us, just as we want to be with them. Little angels given to us to bring hope and a brief glimpse into the world in-between. Thank you. We remember.