Grief is tragic. Grief is a balancing act. Faith will pull you through.
After Bennett died, I decided not to return to the home we were renting at the time. I did not go back or step foot inside this home until the day we handed over the keys - and that is only because I felt Bennett guiding me there. Taylor and my mother packed up the house for me. I never lifted a finger. I couldn't bear the thought of packing Bennett's things into a box. I wanted to just wake up from my nightmare and this not be my life anymore. Taylor and I decided to start looking to purchase our next home pretty quickly. We had originally wanted to be in our rental home for two years before deciding where to live next in the DFW area. That changed. I had really one thing on my must have list for this next home - be within a 10-minute drive to Bennett. This one thing knocked down our search area pretty easily. From there we found two communities we loved. When I walked in to speak to the agent at the model home we chit-chatted for a little bit. Of course, she asked the normal questions of what we were looking for. Then the question I dreaded "Do you have any children?" I could not stop the tears. I think my mom then stepped in to let her know I had lost my son a few weeks prior. This lady took my hand and looked deep into my soul. She then proceeded to tell me the story of how she had lost her 18-month baby boy 25 years ago. I stopped. I had never met someone who had lost a child so many years prior. Or at least I couldn't remember meeting anyone. She placed her hand on my shoulder and assured me at some point I would be able to think of Bennett and smile while tears built in her own eyes. I clung to this hope and put faith in her words.
As time continues to pass there is a part of me that will always be stuck in 2018. The innocent part of me, the part of me that has Bennett physically in her arms, and the part of me who does not understand or know this grief, the part of me that died with Bennett. There is also the part of me with deep, earth-shattering pain that was born in 2018. She continues to walk with me although I have begun to learn how to function with her day-to-day. Such a contrast. Such whiplash. To be completely and utterly happy to numb with deep, dark, ugly pain. Within hours. When I think back at the comparison of these two versions of "Krysten", I am overwhelmed. I love to revisit the happy Krysten. There are so many lovely and cherished memories with her. She has Bennett. She is where I pull my memories from. She holds him tightly to her chest. I am jealous of her most of the time, but she is also where I find comfort and she helps me smile. It has taken me a long time and a lot of hard work to embrace her without also being mad at her. Sounds ridiculous, right? I am sometimes mad she did not appreciate her life and Bennett a little bit more. I have the guilt of her not knowing my future. I have guilt of her not giving Bennett one more kiss or one more hug. I am mostly mad that she is not me. My grief is a constant balancing act. I had to learn to cope with my grief here in this moment before I could allow myself to propel backwards and see progress. This has taken me a long time and it is still something I continue to struggle with. Day after day I grow a little more and my love for Bennett is shaping me into who I will continue to be. This is not a one day, one week, one month, or one year fix. It takes time and is constant. It takes compassion and grace for yourself. It is okay to struggle, and it is okay to be overwhelmed with sadness.
I tell you this story of the home agent to show the milestones we all reach in our grief. When I met her, I was newly into my grief. It was so raw and utterly consuming. I saw no light at the end of the tunnel, I was just wading in a pool of misery with no life raft in sight, and I definitely did not think I would live another day of my earthly life with happiness. Then this woman gave me the gift of hope. Her story and her ableness to speak of her son proudly and with such conviction without breaking down was so inspiring. She smiled. She showed so much love towards her son. She was happy to talk about him and share him with me - a complete stranger. She was willing to guide my own grief journey. Now, I am here to give you hope. Something to put faith into as you balance this unthinkable tragedy. I am over four and a half years into my grief, and I will tell you without a shadow of a doubt, my life is beautiful. I smile. I laugh. I LOVE. This does not mean I am healed, or I do not have horrible moments and days. I also experience and embrace the deepness and darkness of my grief. It never has left. There is still such a gaping hole in my heart, body, and soul. A hole that can never and will never fill up. I think the first two years after Bennett died were the worst. Mostly because I was learning. I was learning how to cope with my unique grief. I was learning how to communicate my story and my feelings to Taylor, my family, friends and strangers. I was experiencing holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries for the first time without Bennett. That was awful. I thought I had all of my birthdays and holidays, here in my earthly life, left with Bennett. Never did I imagine not having him. I was unable to look at pictures or videos of Bennett without being propelled back to the Emergency Room, or the funeral home picking out his casket, or the burial watching his casket being lowered down. Those are terrible, awful, and unthinkable moments that bring excruciating pain. Now, I look at pictures of Bennett and smile. I feel lucky to have had the chance to love his earthly self, I feel blessed he was mine, and I would never change his presence in my life. I also see Bennett in his younger siblings.
I now enjoy when people ask me how many children I have because it gives me a chance to talk about Bennett or at least acknowledge his presence and impact on my life. This has taken patience, time, and reflection. For me, it gives me a chance to share him with other people who have never met him. Speaking to strangers is still hard for me. I do not like the confusing look I get, or the sadness that takes over their expressions. I am now able to really open up about Bennett with friends I have gained trust with and let my walls down with. I can continue his legacy through my memories and words. I will continue to work on my answers to strangers or people I meet for the first time. I am the first to answer "thank you. I'm good." Which is a lie most of the time, but it allows the conversation to move on. I guard myself from the question "what happened." I hate that question. Or the statement "at least you have two other children." Just painful. I am hopeful as I continue to grow, I will learn to answer these questions more appropriately or address these statements with guidance for others that do not understand child loss. As parents, we all have big dreams and hopes for our children. My dream for my children is for them to make a difference in this world through small or big things. Bennett is still making a difference through me, through Taylor, through his siblings, through his family, and through friends.
So, this grief will change. I cannot tell you when or how. I can tell you, it will. You will be able to smile again. You will be able to think of your happy memories again and not just the pain you are feeling now.
Krysten
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