When we were young parents it didn’t take long after Londyn first started walking for us to experience that first moment of panic. You know the one, one second their tiny hand is in yours as they toddle around like a cute little drunken sailor on unsteady feet, the next, in the literal instant it took your attention to be diverted elsewhere, they’ve suddenly mastered running and have vanished into thin air. And even though it most likely only takes a few seconds to find them again, those seconds may as well be hours. For most parents who have experienced that gut wrenching moment I think we can agree it’s a sinking feeling that will bring even the strongest of grown men to his knees.
So when her brother came along, doubling down with this Houdini act of constant disappearance, I found myself purchasing a child leash. A tool I used to privately tease other parents for, I was now unabashedly using. “It was a cute animal backpack with a long tail” I’d tell myself, but anyone witnessing its use knew it for what it was. And so I had found a fix to this stress-inducing dilemma, a sure fire way to avoid any further sickening moments.
As Londyn got older she became better about staying close. Turns out she didn’t like getting lost either. But as she came into her teenage years that desire to stay close quickly disappeared and once again we constantly found ourselves leaning on the side of worry as she pushed harder and harder for her independence. It was during these earlier pre-teen years that she found herself invited to her first school lock-in function. Being that this was an overnight event located off of school
grounds, despite the chaperones and many other safeguards in place, I found myself anxious. And when the big event came, dropping her off at the curb calling out a million last minute survival skill tips as she slammed the car door in my face, I knew I was certainly in for a sleepless night. Sure enough, as it neared morning I received a call earlier than expected. Londyn was not feeling well and was ready to head home. Rushing to the putt putt entertainment venue as fast as I could I found myself greeted by a redhead who was very quickly turning several shades of green and who then promptly threw up in the parking lot. It turns out that certain rides with spinning motions did not agree with her and she had enjoyed more than her fill. Emptying the contents of her stomach, although relieving, was so disgusting to her that she vowed never to do so again. And to this day, as far as I know, she successfully kept that vow.
Experiencing the loss of a child is like living with a tiny yet constant form of nausea. It’s a sinking feeling that something has been forgotten and the never ending nagging suspicion that something is missing is always on my mind. But unlike a child that briefly toddles off around the corner only to be found seconds later, or one whose upset stomach can be mended with soup and crackers or, in Londyn’s case pure will power, this is an ailment that can’t be fixed. The slow trickling realization that I can’t pick up the phone to check on my girl is always there taunting me. It’s one I’ve come to understand will probably stay with me for the rest of my life. Like grief this too comes in waves. It’s stronger some days than others but always there ready to pull at me when I least expect it. Like every parent who is geared to handle the briefly missing toddler or the child who gets sick, I am still automatically built as a mother to fix this. Yes I know there is no cure, but I can’t seem to turn off the motorized part of my brain still searching for a solution. Surely there is a way to turn back the clock, or wake up from the coma I must have found myself in. But like that part in an amusement ride where the floor seems to suddenly disappear beneath your feet, the sinking feeling returns as the rational part of my brain wins yet another struggle. And so the cycle begins again.
I’m still only thirteen months into this so I can’t say whether this is a permanent condition. And in a weird way part of me hopes it is. To find myself completely whole and at peace again just wouldn’t feel right. I don’t want to know a world of pure happiness without my beautiful girl in it because for me that world no longer exists. That doesn’t mean a happy future is out of reach. We still have our beautiful son and his future adventures are reason alone to keep us smiling and moving forward. There are many trips to take, milestones to celebrate and yes, maybe even grandchildren waiting to greet us. But like the missing piece of a puzzle, our world and the future we had planned will always remain incomplete. Our family will forever carry the what if’s and wonder at what could have been. And I have a sinking feeling that future, the one with Londyn in it, would have been amazing.
😪