“Sometimes, the only way to survive grief (for me, child loss), is to let the people who still need you be the reason you keep going.”
The highway was dark, although by the time we began driving the sky was turning from black to a deep purple. Molly was in an ambulance somewhere on the same highway. Kenny slept in the back, Gracie was clutching her hands, eyes wide and full of fear, and I was driving.
In my heart of hearts, I knew. I knew she was gone. Dr. Luther made it very clear that removing the tumor was only happening because Molly was 13. If Molly had been my age, he would not have gotten out of bed.
I now feel that Concord Hospital was moving us along so that another hospital would bear the weight of their mistakes.
How grief hobbled me
I have been very open and honest about my struggles with drugs and alcohol in the months after Molly died. I was, in the words of Annie Wilkes in Stephen King’s Misery, “hobbled” Molly’s death cut my foot off, it broke me in ways I still fail to truly understand.
It hobbled me.
The day we got home from the hospital, that now long ago May 7th, Gracie dropped a pile of blankets on the living room floor at bedtime. We would sleep there for the next two years. There is something temporary about a floor bed. It is a sleep over, or a indoor campout. In those early days of losing Molly, that floor bed not only kept us from looking at her empty bed, it helped us manage our denial.
This can’t be forever if we are sleeping on the floor.
While my denial lessened over the summer, Gracie held firm to the belief that Molly would one day come walking up the driveway.
Why Gracie became my reason to keep going
The only reason I did not truly fall off the deep end after Molly died was Gracie. Her life shattered in an instant. The fear in her eyes, even as she reveled in the attention her friends were giving her, was clear and palpable.
When the dreams started coming, those “you must have a baby” dreams, I followed them completely. I had no logical reason to, but I did. That process saved my life. My brain tumor diagnosis, while terrifying, paved the way for Gracie to keep her mother.
It also gave her a brother.
When I shared my initial brain tumor diagnosis with her, she looked just like she did on that middle of the night drive to Dartmouth.
Her eyes showed abject fear.
Who could blame her? Her sister was dead. Her father was receiving dialysis, and now her mother had a brain tumor.
A siblingless parentless reality. An orphan.
What still keeps me here
A lot of what I do now is for Jack, for The MollyB Foundation, and for Gracie. They are the ones who need me. My children.
While there are times I feel “normal”, for the most part I exist with a pit in my stomach and the nervous anticipation of the unknown that comes with it.
So Gracie, Molly, Jack, and to a certain extent Gordy keep me centered and focused. I try to ensure a safe future for Jack and Gracie. I try to maintain Molly’s legacy. I try to honor Baby Gordy.
This often begs the question, what about you Barb?
I do not always know how to begin to ponder this question, let alone answer it. Perhaps some effort in this regard would be a good thing.
Until then, I will continue to write my blogs sharing my chair with Jack as he watched FNAF on YouTube.
I love you Molly.
