House of Cards

I have talked to other mothers of angel babies about the healing process and many different descriptions are used.  As mentioned before, it's referred to as a thin scab that often breaks open.  Sometimes the old phrase "one step forward, two steps back" is used.  For me and my healing, the best analogy is a house of cards.

When I first started to heal I held together the smallest shreds of sanity.  Like the four cards to begin a house of cards, I had four small things to build on ... Brian, Logan, Jonah, and Colton.  Brian, my partner, my love, and my rock.  My boys, Logan and Jonah, my blessings God gave me.  And Colton, the little angel, and my desire to honor him.  I firmly believe that those four cards are the things that give the whole house of cards strength and foundation.  And when the house of cards topples, those four cards are the beginning points to rebuild again.

Slowly the house of cards grows.  You can add a cards, carefully and slowly, to build the tallest of mansions.  In healing you add a little here and there.  A good day may add a few cards.  A bad day may leave you too shaky to even attempt to go near the house of cards. 

The thing about the house of cards, though, is that it's fragile and unstable.  And one large blow sends it falling to rubble.  Each building block there, each piece available, yet in shambles and scatters.

I work on my house of cards every day.  I try to grow and heal and progress.  Normally I do really well and my house was growing taller and taller.  Then it all fell down.

The other day I went into the doctor to follow up on test results.  I was already anxious ... we were testing my thyroid and I was worried that this, too, would be 'bad'.  Before I even had a chance to worry too much about that I was brought to a pile of cards by one small interaction.

This adorable little girl, about a year old, was running around the waiting room.  She was grabbing magazines and gibbering like she was reading the cover.  She'd laugh then run off somewhere else.  I was watching her, soaking in her exploration, wonder, and innocence.  Then she ran up to me, smiled at me, and gibbered something unrecognizable and burst into laughter.  I giggled too, at her spirit and joy. 

Then the house fell down.

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks.  Every ounce of strength and healing I'd accomplished was laying like rubble in my gut.  This beautiful little girl represented everything I would never have with my son.  I would never see him walk. I'd never watch him learn and explore and discover.  I'd never chase him around and tell him no, and be worn out from his endless energy.  I'd never have anything with him.  He was gone.

I don't want to say that I forget that he's gone, I'll never forget.  I suppose, though, it just isn't a conscious thought most of the time.  So when it hits, the feeling of a mack truck plowing me down to roadkill overcomes me.  I couldn't see straight.  I couldn't swallow.  I couldn't breath. 

I held it together ever so precariously until I was taken back to an exam room.  Even more than my fear of losing it in the middle of the waiting room was the fear of scaring this beautiful little girl and disturbing her father.  See, the pain is disabling.  However, unlike other disabilities, no one can see this pain.  If you see someone with a broken leg, it makes sense when they limp.  If you see someone using a walking cane, you can see they are blind and accommodate them.  A broken heart, though ... well, others can't see that.  So when you break into tears in the middle of a room for no apparent reason, people just think you're crazy. 

I cried a lot in the exam room.  My doctor came in after I had calmed and talked with me for a bit.  Of course my labs came back off, as I worried, and I have to be tested in three months again.  I will say, I am already tired of living in three month increments. Luckily the bad news of the thyroid test was nothing compared to the heartbreak the beautiful little girl brought.

And, really, three months to wait for the repeat PAP and three months to wait for the repeat thyroid test seems insignificant now.

It will take at least that long to rebuild my house of cards.  I have clung to my Brian this week.  Logan is sitting here cuddling on the couch with me.  Jonah is here to visit for the week (praise God for putting what we need where we need when we need ).  And Colton will always be strong in my heart and an inspiration.  The foundation is there and gives me hope.

And so I will build, looking each day for a card to put into place.

Healing is just a house of cards, though ... fragile and unstable.  Easily blown over and difficult to trust.  Also beautiful, inspiring, and worth the effort if for nothing else than to say you made it.