When you learn, at age 17, that bad things DO happen to you – that life is not forever, and the natural order of things is flipped on its head – that car accidents can happen and brothers can leave this world without even saying goodbye –
And you learn, at age 31, that your ridiculous idea of “I’ve been through enough loss” doesn’t hold weight in the real world – that diagnoses CAN happen to your baby – that your life is not going to be of the white picket fence variety –
I think a part of you never lets go of the fact that the worst is possible.
It is tucked back in the deepest darkest corners of your mind – shielded under layers and layers of both love and let’s-get-through-today.
But it’s there. That nagging worry. That precedented truth. Bad things happen.
I clutch that worry sometimes like a shield. If I can just prepare myself for the worst possible outcome – I tell myself – then my heart won’t shatter as completely if it comes to be.
It is the realist in me. I had never vocalized it until last night, but a part of me truly believed Kiran would not survive his open heart surgery. It just made sense to me, that I would have to navigate that loss.
Just like it makes sense to me, now, that something must be seriously, gravely wrong with my boy. Cardiology or neurology is going to find something serious causing these new crazy symptoms – I keep thinking he will receive a terminal diagnosis.
I clutch the worst-case-scenario as if I’m marked. A target for tragedy.
And I have to let go.
Giving credit where credit is due, an image I shared on my facebook page the other day from Sarah Lango – Gracefilled Growth – hit me so hard. Part of her words – “She let it go – proclaiming in one bold act, ‘God I know you can, but even if you don’t.'”
The “even if” is the hardest part. I am scared to let go and take my armor down. Built with past loss, anxious thoughts, and the most terrible future unfoldings I can imagine, it provides some sort of odd comfort to me.
Letting it go means opening myself up to feeling this journey at full capacity. It means recognizing I can’t control anything, even with the most elaborately built shields.