A shoulder to cry on.

As a mom, one of the first things you get conditioned for right off the bat is soothing your child. It’s boot camp in the first few months of life and not for the faint hearted. As a mom of a colicky premie it becomes boot camp on steroids and Sean and I spent many a night those first six months of Londyn’s life up until 3am trying to figure out the “magic trick” that would finally lull her to sleep. We tried everything, Mylicon drops, playing music, complete silence, standing outside in the cold. Those were some incredibly long nights I thought I was glad to see gone. As she got older it was a scraped knee, a bad grade on a test, a missed flute solo or, even once, a broken heart. And as every mother would be in those rare moments, when she would allow me to, I was happy to be her shoulder to cry on. Those moments were precious. What surprised me as she started entering adulthood is how that bond naturally began to shift. I now had this other female counterpart in my life, and a fierce one at that! It was the little things at first, a retort back at Sean or Brendan when they’d jokingly pick on me, a reminder to eat the cookie and don’t worry about the calories. But slowly it began to blossom into more and I now had this other female being in my life to hold me up.

     When a loved one is suddenly gone, if you’re lucky, there is no short supply of comfort. Those first few weeks and months are hard but they are also very busy and full of distractions. Naturally as the weeks wane, things become quieter and people more scarce. That source of comfort gets redirected to books and resources shared by friends and family that will prepare you for things like “the year of the firsts”. And they’re not wrong. Holidays and birthdays, these special days often associated with the loss of a loved one are exceptionally hard. What they don’t mention are the non-descript firsts. Moments that unknowingly filled an important space in our lives are suddenly gone. These will catch you by surprise and take your breath away. As I sit here nursing a cold and sipping on soup, I find myself momentarily drowning in a space that would have been filled by Londyn. She would be calling me, on FaceTime most likely, to check in and share Salem’s latest feline antics. And I would smile and tell her I’ll be ok. It’s the loss of moments like these that are sometimes the most painful. It’s the ironic realization that Londyn had become my shoulder to cry on, gone just when I needed it most.