Grief is nothing new

October 29, 2014. That is the day we started grieving. This is the day we found out that something was wrong with Conley.

We had big plans for Conley. We had big plans for our family of four. We chose to have the boys close in age so they could be best buds, and do everything together. We wanted to take them to the same school, so Conley could follow in Choice's footsteps by charming all of the teachers. We wanted to have them participate in music class together. We hoped to enroll Conley in swim class. I had hoped to continue working out, doing Crossfit and Prenatal Yoga, just like I did when I pregnant with Choice. We wanted to visit family in California for the first time when Conley was a baby so everyone could meet him and love on him. We looked forward to being able to give the boys baths together so Choice could splash Conley and we could teach him about being gentle. I wanted the boys to wrestle around on the floor, get dirty at the park, and eat ice cream together. I planned to go back to work part time so I could still do the work I love, while also taking care of my boys. Taking care of my boys together. I anticipated being able to take them both places by myself; being able to handle the idea of two children under two all alone as most mothers do. I dreamed about them sharing a room as they got older and cuddling, maybe even having bunk beds, or a trundle bed. I wanted to pass Choice's clothes down to Conley. This is just a small list. There are so many more things I had hoped, wished, wanted, dreamed, and anticipated. Planned even. All those things you envision when having two children; a partner in crime or a best friend. But, none of this could happen.

Conley could not go to school, music, gymnastics, swim class, or participate in any group setting regularly because he was immunocompromised. He couldn't take a bath with Choice because he could not get wet in certain places due to his medical devices that may lead to infection. We could not travel to California because Conley had to be hooked up to dialysis every night, and packing all the supplies needed for just one week, or one night, was too much to even fathom. They could not wrestle or rough house because Conley was so fragile and prone to vomiting with minimal stimulation. Conley was not able to play in the dirt at the park due to risk of infection. Conley did not eat anything by mouth because kidney failure made him too nauseous all the time, so ice cream was out. Taking Choice and Conley alone anywhere was difficult, and sometimes impossible, given Conley's vomiting and constant one on one attention. Conley could not wear Choice's clothes because he could not tolerate shorts or pants due to the medical devices in his belly and his proneness to vomiting. He couldn't wear Choice's old shirts because medical devices on his chest would not be secured. Every doctor always wanted to see Conley's tummy, so even onesies were difficult to tolerate, so rompers it was all the time. Again, the list goes on.

The one thing that did go as planned was that the boys were best buds. Best friends from the first minute. While they did not, and could not, do a lot of things together, they loved each other so much. Their eyes lit up when they saw each other. Choice came home from school everyday and asked for Conley. Conley always reached and tried to play with Choice's hair. They were in fact best buds.

So while we were still happy that Conley was alive and with us, we were also grieving. So you see, to me; to us, grief is nothing new. We grieved most of Conley's life because the constant fear and anxiety that Conley could die at any moment was there. We grieved the life we had wanted for Conley. The life we wanted for Conley and Choice together. The fact the we were the ones in control of his every day care brought grief. I had to grieve the Chardonnay that I knew, and quickly adjust to the new role I had acquired without any room for major error. I lost myself; I lost who I was as a mother and as a wife. I was grieving that too. Every time Conley was sick and had to go to the ER, or be admitted to the hospital, or have a planned or emergency surgery, I was grieving. Seeing things that no mother should ever have to see created an unimaginable amount of grief. Tubes, wires, blood transfusions, multiple IV's, scars, open stomachs...just stuff in and out of my child's body every day of his life. I saw Conley suffer too many times, and I just sat there with him, grieving, every minute, because that's all I could do. That's what mothers do. So, I've become pretty good at grieving.

These past few weeks have been really strange to me. I constantly find myself consoling others as they grieve Conley's death and celebrate his life. And that's okay. I am truly okay with this. Because I've had his whole life to grieve. And that's when it clicked. To others who are on the outside looking in, the majority of the grief started after Conley passed. But, that's when ours mostly ended. Don't get me wrong, I am still grieving, but this grief feels different. Jonathan and I have talked many times about how we feel that others might look at us and wonder how we are not constantly in tears or how we are able to be so "strong" right now. How are we laughing and going out to dinner, and meeting up with friends? For example, today I picked Choice up from school and met with a friend for a play date at the park. Never would that have happened before. It was always 'get Choice from school and get home as fast as you could so we could take care of Conley.' I felt guilty that I was looking forward to this park date and having the freedom to enjoy the afternoon with Choice, while I should be grieving the loss of Conley. It's a constant struggle to my heart and mind, but thank God for Choice and his ability to distract me from any sadness. He has saved us. And I know Conley would not want me to feel guilty. He knew we did everything for him and about him. We all sacrificed for him, and given the chance, we would do it again. And as Jonathan and I talk about how we wonder what people think of our grieving process, once again, we are on the same page; and we just get each other. Especially in this moment. Jonathan and I as parents grieved for Conley's entire life. For what we lost, what we could not have, what we saw, we what had to do, the decisions we made, and for what we thought would be. And we grieved quite a bit behind the scenes; behind closed doors. And only when we started to share Conley's story through the blog, that is when the community started grieving with us. This is how my healing began. My healing began when I started the blog and allowed everyone to grieve with me.

"Our culture treats grief like a problem to be solved or an illness to be healed. We've done everything we can to avoid, ignore, or transform grief. So that now, when you're faced with tragedy, you usually find that you're no longer surrounded by people — you're surrounded by platitudes. The last thing a person devastated by grief needs is advice. Their world has been shattered. Inviting someone — anyone — into their world is an act of great risk. To try to fix, rationalize, or wash away their pain only deepens their terror. Instead, the most powerful thing you can do is acknowledge. To literally say the words: I acknowledge your pain. I'm here with you. Note that I said with you, not for you. For implies that you're going to do something. That's not for you to enact. But to stand with your loved one, to suffer with them, to do everything but something is incredibly powerful. There is no greater act for others than acknowledgment. And that requires no training, no special skills — just the willingness to be present and to stay present, as long as is necessary. Be there. Only be there. Don't leave when you feel uncomfortable or when you feel like you're not doing anything. In fact, it's when you feel uncomfortable and like you're not doing anything that you must stay. Because it's in those places — in the shadows of horror we rarely allow ourselves to enter — where the beginnings of healing are found. This healing is found when we have others who are willing to enter that space alongside us. Every grieving person on earth needs these people.  I beg you, be one of these people. You are more needed than you will ever know. And when you find yourself in need of those people, find them. I guarantee they are there." - Tim Lawrence  (http://www.upworthy.com/8-simple-words-to-say-when-when-someone-you-love-is-grieving?c=ufb6)

My heart keeps telling me that I should be grieving more now that Conley is gone, but I'm not. At least not yet. And I'm not naive enough to think grief is linear. I know it comes and goes. My heart and soul are not happy by any means, and I feel lost without Conley here, but I am not grieving any more than I have since October 2014. At least not how I was when Conley was alive. I keep telling people that Conley is okay. Because I know he is. When he was here on this earth, I could not tell people that he was okay. Because every day would change. I would have to say he is okay today; this minute; but we do not know about tomorrow. But now, I can say that he okay; forever. And I truly feel in my heart that is true. Therefore, I don't have to grieve anymore.