Gratitude

It has been an incredible week. After Kinnie climbed out of her crib 6 nights ago, she is sleeping soundly in her "big-girl" bed- an actual full size! She has been a complete joy. We play and play. We laugh. She loves to cuddle and give kisses. She sings as loud as she can. She runs and runs- an active girl, to be sure. When we go to the park, she is just as happy to play among the trees as she is to play on the playground. This week, we fed ducks and squirrels. She gives our Koda puppy big hugs, and plays ball with Charlie Boy. She offers comfort, kisses our "owies."

I have been able to remain present this week. To put aside what doesn't matter for the things that really do.

I feel such immense gratitude- for my baby, my family, my friends.

I went to my orthopedist on Tuesday, to learn the results of a recent MRI of my hip. Since I was younger than Kinnie, I have had problems with it, and expected that the news would not be good.

When I pulled into the parking garage at the hospital, I felt my family holding me. I thought of all that my parents had been through with me- the surgeries, the recovery, the pain, the fear. And I knew that though I am now 31 years old, they would do it all again for me, right now. I knew that they would take the pain, if they could. That is a powerful feeling. I just knew my Dad was thinking about me, hoping that the news wouldn't be too bad. And my Mom met me there, to hold my hand. And I thought about how it must have felt, to watch their baby go through what I did. I think it was probably harder for them than for me.

Even though we faced all of it, turns out, I need a new hip. The cartilage in my current hip is beat to hell. I knew this was coming, and in some ways, it is a relief that the wait is over. And, in some ways, I am terrified.

I walked through the grocery store today, an activity that often inflames my pain, when tears came to my eyes as I realized that soon, I will be able to do this without hurting. Pain is a fascinating thing, when it is ever-present. All one can do is try to live with it, to not let it interfere. Some days, it is easier than others. The hope of doing these day-to-day activities without it is pretty incredible, and overwhelming.

I am grateful for all the lessons I learn, everyday, about how to better live this life. I am grateful for the things that take my breath away, and make me slow down and notice this moment. I am grateful for the pains, so that I remember what is truly important, and that I should focus on that. I am grateful that I have family and friends, who love and support me. I am grateful for that adorable baby, curled up in her big-girl bed, and all the meaning she has brought to my life.

Lessons

My house is a disaster. It hasn't been this bad in I don't know how long. Everywhere I look, there are toys, and papers, and dog hair, and who knows what else. But it's okay.

Brian had surgery to remove his infected appendix late last Thursday night. He is home, and doing well. And, his activity is limited. I am trying to care for him, the baby, the puppies... The house has fallen to the bottom of the list.

This experience has made me realize something. In all of this uninterrupted time with my family, I have been able to clearly see what is important. Yes, I like my house to be clean. But bouncing with Kinnie on the couch, squealing and giggling- that's important, and it's what I love. Even if the floor below is covered by all the toys she has dumped out of the bin. It seems as though I have a never-ending to-do list of unimportant stuff- vacuuming, dusting, repairing nail holes in the walls. But if I am constantly trying to keep up with that list, what am I missing out on? I have been outside more in the past couple of days that I had in the previous weeks, because of my need to walk to dogs. I have played more presently with Kinnie. I have been able to look after Brian and help him heal.

Another thing came to me yesterday, related in a round about way. We visited with Dusty's sister, who was in town for the weekend. After walking around downtown for a couple hours with her, Brian and I were driving home. We talked about Dusty's ability to bring people together while he was alive. It didn't particularly matter if one was "like" you. Dusty was open and interested in all kinds of people.

I think, in his death, Dusty continues to bring us together. There is a group of people, who, because Dusty loved them, and they loved him, are even more dear to my heart than they were prior to his death. People with whom I feel connected, and want to look out for, because Dusty felt that way for them. So, though we lost him, we share the burden of heavy hearts and hope for healing. We gained something new. That doesn't make up for missing him, but it helps.

Clarity of the most important things in life came to me this weekend. They are the people we love, and the people who are loved by people we loved. If I can maintain presence with them, and connection with them, then a dirty house just doesn't matter.

Weight

It has been a while. Time has flown and here I am, nearly two months later, wondering where it went. Sometimes I want to scream at it to slow down. And, I know, it will only go faster the longer we live. It makes me think of the quote credited to Lincoln: "In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."

Being with Kinnie fills me with life. She plays, and sings, and dances, and giggles. I think she tries a new song every day. Today, it was "Where is Thumbkin?" complete with some sort of hand gestures. We read books, and watch Elmo. She loves the bath, and swimming. She plays with the dogs, who sometimes (reluctantly) return the favor.

There is still a weight on me, a confusion in my heart. I still have not healed from the difficulties, and loss, from the last year. I realized recently that one of my most strongly held beliefs, has been challenged. From the time I was 14, and faced the diagnosis of and treatment for an auto-immune disease, I have believed things happen for a reason. I have believed the things that I have faced in my life have made me stronger, wiser, more compassionate. Which is why so many of my posts in the past many months have focused on making sense of the senseless. But I haven't been able to get there.

I'm not quite sure what the hump I'm trying to get over is. I just know it's there. And I know that I worry that its existence changes how present I am with Kinnie. Worry, worry... I have to let that go. 

New Year

Kinnie insisted on being awake to ring in the New Year. She had slept for a couple hours, and then awakened at 11. As I watched the clock turn from 11:59 to 2012, I was curled up in bed with Kinnie clinging to me, and both my pups cuddled up to my legs.

I hope that the way I felt as the New Year arrived is a sign of things to come.

In reflecting on the past year, I struggle to look forward without anxiety. I want to say that I am stronger than all that has happened. It has taken a toll. Even with the incredibly bright light that is my Kinnie, it feels as though my world is somehow darker. This is an incredible process for me, and I am still working on accepting.

My mom wrote this to me today.

"To Kelsey and Brian~~~~As you close out 2011, I know that you will look back on a lot of loss and sadness. I am struck however, by the way in which you lived life in 2011. When you lost Granddad and Grandy you both graciously walked through the pain without numbing yourself and looked to help those you love with their grief. You were present and participated in 4 weddings! Sometimes, it was a thankless job, but you showed up and gave your all, every single time. You helped raise funds for Ryan's wedding and were an integral part of he and Laura's big day. You orchestrated ceremonies as well as performed them.
When tragedy struck and Dusty was gone, you went to be with your friends and grieve. Your sadness was palpable and uncomfortable to watch but we watched you walk through your grief and you taught us all in sharing that process. Another friends father passed and you took the time to comfort him.

There were our many family events, a trip to New Mexico, and not once did either of you not show up. Surely you were tired or sad, but you kept participating in life, all the while working and raising Kinnie. When Kinnie got sick you worked together as a team and met her every need, all the while feeling scared and unsure. She could not have asked for better parents.
So, while 2011 saw a lot of loss, it was a year of triumph for the two of you. You persevered and participated in this thing called life and did so with grace and dignity."
 
It was so good to read, and I hope that I can soon look upon 2011 as a year of triumph. Certainly, it will not triumph over me. I have so much for which I am grateful, so many blessings. I hope for a beautiful 2012.

Adjusting to dark

We have now been home from the hospital for 3 days. It has been so good to be home, and, mostly, to have my little girl feeling good again. The spark in her is alive and well.

I have struggled, in the past many days, with what the year 2011 has meant to me. I feel there has been an inordinate amount of struggle, and pain. I feel angry. I feel hurt. I feel like I am eager to begin a new year, one which, I dearly hope, will not be so hard.

As I reflect on feeling this way, I realize my thinking is flawed. My outlook is not so dark. At least not usually.

And so my challenge, between now and the start of 2012, is to look for light. I want to end this year with gratitude for all that I do have, and for what the challenges have taught me. I walked into Kinnie's room tonight, and stared into the pitch black that is her crib, until my eyes adjusted and I could see my soundly sleeping baby. And doing so made me think about this year. That, at first glance, it seems so dark- so much loss, so much heartache, so many challenges. But there has to be something more, something better, to take from it. If the dark defines this year, what will I be missing?

I suppose it is a choice, and an ability to accept these challenges as a part of the beauty of life. But in some moments, seeing it any other way feels so difficult. I just want to feel, in my heart and my gut, that something better has come out of all this pain.

For the love of my baby

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."

I cried in relief today as we got home. We spent the last three nights in the hospital, and Kinnie was sick for a week before her admission. It has been the most exhausting, heart-breaking experience. And so, the relief of walking back through the door with her was immense. And she is well, for which I am so grateful.

I have known, since the moment Kinnie was born, that my heart feels her joy and her pain more that it feels my own. I have known many moments when her laughter has brought me to tears, and when her tears have brought me to tears. I never want her to feel pain. I want to protect her from it, to take it for her, to make it better.

Healing

I talked with my Nana last night about loss. She shared that seven years ago, she lost a friend to suicide. She described that she still does not understand, there are still days when she asks "why?" She described her friend as someone who was bright, and full of life. She said it had not made sense.

I don't know if it is resignation. I suppose at some level, it is. I have to accept that I will not have all the answers, ever.

Every day, I practice looking at the world as the Dusty I knew did.