When you find out your child is dying, you pray a lot.
You pray to everyone—the angels, your spirit guides, the God that Catholic school taught you to be afraid of. You pray loudly and angrily through your tears, and you pray quietly and pleadingly…as if, maybe, if you just asked sweetly enough, your wish might be granted.
You watch your world fall apart, as if you are strapped into a roller coaster seat and the tracks are crumbling around you. You feel the floor under your feet drop.
You pray for a miracle.
People often say they are praying for you, too. I wonder what they pray for exactly, but I don’t ask. For my child to live—meaning, to be trapped in a body that does not work, with a brain that does not function? For my child to pass peacefully? For all of this to have been some mistake, and for my child to be completely healthy?
When they light candles at church, what do they ask God for?
They probably pray for a miracle.
I begged for a miracle last year. I visualized, I journaled, I practiced my breathing and my positive thinking. I cried and went to bed and tried to believe that this surely was a bad dream and I would be woken up soon. Things like this don’t happen to me, right? I prayed there was some mistake.
And then Jack died.
And yet, I was still surrounded by miracles. The one I asked for? No. But miracles, just the same.
Through genetic testing, I learned that my firstborn child has a rare chance of being here. I always took my pregnancy with him and his birth for granted. Not anymore. I realize what a gift, a true gift, his life is to me. A miracle.
I learned what a miracle a strong marriage is. When a child dies, it is easy, so easy for a husband and wife to turn on each other. To allow grief to rip your own insides apart, and then use those same claws to hurt the one you love most. Yes, it is lovely to stand in a white dress with flowers in your hair and make some pretty promises in front of a room full of people. But perhaps it is more lovely to hold each other when you have lost your whole world. The moments you have when it is just the two of you, and the party is long over…looking into the darkness ahead, and knowing that you truly meant those promises you made years ago.
I saw the miracle of friendship. True friendship. The people who are brave enough to keep checking on me. Who knew that each and every day was a struggle where I had to choose to see joy, and who made sure they were a part of the joy that I saw. The people who, when they asked “How are you,” knew that the answer could be much bigger than small talk, and still chose to ask anyway.
Jack brought me the most compassionate people in the world to carry me. I truly believe that.
I know know the miracle of getting up anyway. Of carrying on anyway. The miracle of still seeing love, despite the greatest loss you can experience. You can still see light.
You can delight in other people’s happiness because you still, after everything, can feel your own.
You can truly empathize with other’s pain, because you have allowed yourself to feel your own.
Whether it is the smell of ocean air, or the Colorado sky lit up with a rainbow. Whether it is the laughter of your son giggling in the back seat to a silly song, or your own laughter as you giggle along with him. Whether it is a hot cup of coffee in your favorite mug, the feeling of your favorite blanket, your friend holding your hand—you feel love, life, connection. You start to see the miracles in moments. The pockets of joy and the sparkle of this short life.
You see the miracle in what it is to be temporary.
You know you are not here long, and you know how sweet it is to be here.
You realize that you prayed for one miracle, and you received much much more. The miracle you received was the ability to truly see them.
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