Kerri Hanlon: Milestones
It's almost been a year. Everyone told us the first year is brutal. A series of "firsts" that rip your heart out. First Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first birthday, first anniversary of his passing. And then we found our own "firsts". First St. Patrick's Day, which is steeped in tradition in our home. First time we went out to eat as a family and requested a table for four instead of five. First time flying without him. First time going to the beach without him. First family vacation without him.
When your child dies, a piece of your heart goes with them. On some days, it feels like the piece that's gone outweighs the piece that's left. And what's left is filled with such profound sadness, you're grateful it's so small.
I know people get through this. I see them often. At the yoga studio, in my neighborhood, at the grocery store – so I know life goes on. I'm just at a tender part of figuring out my path.
I've tried...goodness knows I've tried...ways to support myself on this journey. Counseling, yoga, meditation, acupuncture, being mindful of what I put into my body so I don't enter a downward physical spiral. And, truth be told, Netflix binges and ice cream. Because all the other stuff wasn't working, so why not.
I remind myself that I have two other children and a husband who are also grieving, who need my support and love. This is largely the thing that keeps me going. Because some days, I feel I deserve a medal just for getting out of bed. When I shared this with one of my sisters-in-law, she became my lifeline where she awarded me the medal (usually via text) on days I needed it.
I've tried giving back, stepping into service so I'm reminded that there are things larger than myself. Every other week I go to CHOP to lead yoga for parents and caregivers on the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. So bittersweet, as this was something I had initiated before Sean died. But it's where we learned Sean would not recover and had to let him go. Every time I press "7" for the elevator, a chill runs through me. "7" isn't good. It means your child requires the highest level of care. Not "8", where he's sick and needs lots of respiratory support. Not "5" where he's recovering from surgery. Nope, "7" means big time. And yet I remember how hard it was being on that unit day in and day out and would have been grateful for an hour of mindful movement and breathing. So I go.
In this final week of the countdown to the anniversary of Sean's passing, memories are flooding back. This time of year feels particularly hard, with all the excitement about back to school. There will be no bus schedule and teacher announcements. No trips to Target for notebooks and binders, no visits to Bed Bath & Beyond for our dorm essentials. For us, there is no new school year. But when is it a good time to lose a child? Certainly not around the holidays. Not their birthday month. Oh, that's right. There never really is a good time. In a season when I would typically be savoring the sweetness of these last few weeks of summer, time it passing so slowly. All I want is for the anniversary date to be here so we can go through it and move on.
Oh, and then a friend who lost a child told me the second year is the hardest.
Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But I'm not there yet. All I can do is focus on this day. This morning, this moment.
In yoga, we often speak of focusing on the breath and being present. I've learned this past year that my mind and my heart become deeply disconnected when I live in the past or in the future. I miss Sean. I'm pretty sure I'll always miss him. And it's ok, because I loved him so deeply, his life was so full, that it's only natural for me to feel this deep chasm. I'm getting more comfortable with sitting with the sorrow. I'm fairly good at distraction – and it has been a useful tool this past year. But there's also time to be with what is. It's not easy. But I think it's where the healing can occur.
And goodness knows, I could use some of that.
My head will always miss Sean. My heart will miss him more. So maybe just acknowledging it is enough. For now.
Kerri Hanlon is a mother, writer and co-founder of Yoga Home in Conshohocken. She shares her experiences so others know they are not alone. She can be reached at kerri@ouryogahome.com
