15 Weeks

It's been 15 weeks. I cannot believe I have entered the fourth month without Waverly.

We took a family trip last week to Florida. We were able to take our yearly road trip down south to sunshine and warmth in the midst of winter. Unlike past trips, we ventured to the gulf coast for a few days on the beach. A new destination to create new memories. We rode around in a golf cart, walked in the surf, collected seashells and enjoyed one another's company. We then went to Orlando for a day at Disney. Disney World holds so many memories for our family, we worried an entire week there would be too painful. It was always Wavey's favorite place. Still we enjoyed the day remembering. We have been there so often that each area holds a special reminder - her walking down Main Street in a Snow White dress, driving the cars at the Speedway, giggling maniacally on Big Thunder Railroad. I bought a balloon for her, because she always loved balloons. I cried as I disembarked Dumbo for the final ride of the night, remembering how much I loved riding that particular ride with her.

For a week I was able to distance myself from my grief. Our vacation was not just an opportunity to escape winter, but I was able to escape the full presence of grief. I was excited to return home. I love being in our house and I appreciate our space more than I ever did before. But I was aware that my grief was there waiting for me. And it found me. Like a warm down filled blanket, it has enveloped me. I missed it. It's weight grounds me. I am comfortable here.

Whenever I write of grief, I inevitably get a few messages from people about moving on or choosing to be happy with the now. I appreciate the sentiment and I believe most of it comes from a place of love. However I have found that people are uncomfortable with grief. Actual grief, which is not over in a finite amount of time. We like things to have a defined ending and there is no such thing. Waverly's death changed me. 

And I cannot help but remember that I will have to endure the loss of my son. Oliver is going to die. I cannot fully comprehend my grief, because I am anticipating his eventual death. I have been to hell and I know that I have to go back there again.