So, I very rarely turn off my computer. I know it is a terrible habit. Please don’t lecture me about hackers and all that! It really comes down to time management. I normally get done with a project about 10 seconds before I’m committed to be inside to relieve a babysitter or to make dinner or to get Teal to her next therapy appointment. You hear me?
Anyhoots, I just save things and run out the door. Well, I am very very sad to tell you that I didn’t save some pretty important journal entries and wouldn’t you know it…my computer did a restart on me and guess who can’t recover them? Me! I have tried, believe me. I did the google search and followed the steps. Nope. Not there. I actually searched for key words, hoping that I did somehow save them or the computer saved them for me and they just aren’t under “Unsaved files.”
Sad but true, I can’t find them. So, this led me to question “What happens when you lose things?” And, that leads me to the real question of “Why do we hang on so tightly to the lost things?” Why do I need to search so hard for what has been lost? Why can’t I just accept that it is gone and won’t return? Why can’t I see the beauty in having had it and then lost it?
And yes, I know…this is SO MUCH MORE THAN LOSING A WORD DOC of a journal entry. This is about the loss of what was. The loss of what I thought would be. I am still, after more than 5 years post diagnosis, mourning the loss of what my life would look like, feel like, and be. The mourning looks different than it used to. The mourning is lighter and doesn’t weigh on me every moment of every day. The mourning is easier to get through. And yet it is still there. A lump in my throat or a heaviness in my heart. At times it is heavier than I would like to admit. And at times, it is more than I am willing to acknowledge.
I look at my grief and feel guilty because my Teal is so magnificent, so magical. But, I still mourn that I’ve never heard her say, “Mom.” Or “I love you.” Or, “I’m home!!” I still mourn hearing her footsteps run up the stairs after a play date to greet me and tell me about her day. And I mourn that she can’t pick out her clothes in the morning, brush her teeth, and come down for breakfast…on her own!
There are many parts of our lives and our child’s life we can mourn the loss of. And, long, deep, soothing sigh, it is okay.
It is okay to grieve.
It is okay to grieve that which could have been.
It is okay to grieve the unknown.
It is okay to be angry at your computer for losing documents that had precious meaning and a little part of your heart.
It’s all okay.
