Alone with One

I've been really struggling at home with Payson. I can't figure out how to be a parent of just one. The weight of being alone with one has been a confusing and difficult transition. How do you go back to having one child again after you had two? It feels like a part of my life is missing.

This morning David and I took a walk to the park. We climbed the playground with Payson. Helped him slide down the slides and then climb back up them (his favorite thing). We pushed him in the baby swings and I felt the loneliness and grief slip from my shoulders.

We had been pushing him back and forth between the two of us in the swing for some time before I noticed the other swing. The swing next to his sat alone, empty, and still.

The swing where Kalea should have been.

The emptiness was too much for me. The grief came rushing back.

What if her baby spirit was right there watching us push Payson?

What if she was sitting right there in that little swing?

What if she was hoping and waiting for me to push her?

Irrational as it was I walked over and started pushing the empty baby swing (sometimes grief is irrational).

I pushed the swing back and forth and fought the tears that I knew were going to come.

“Are you sad?” David asked. I didn't answer. “Are you pushing baby Kalea?”

Now I couldn't answer. My eyes were burning. Memories were beginning to flood in-- I used to walk here with both babies when we first moved into the neighborhood. I used to push Payson on the swings while Kalea was curled up in her baby wrap safe on my chest, just her fuzzy dark hair visible.

She had been too little for swings.

I thought about how I used to brave the store with both Payson and Kalea-- two under two. People used to stop me and say “Wow! You're supermom.” Or “You've got your hands full.” And now…

Now I'm not supermom and now I don't have my hands full. Now I have a forever empty space.

Except that it isn't an empty space to me because I still see her.

Like the first time I ventured out of my grief to go on a walk with a friend and her baby. She pushed her single jogger and I trailed behind her feeling emotional and ridiculous as I pushed my double jogger behind her bearing only a single occupant. Every person we passed seem to study me with a quizzical look-- why is she using a double stroller for just one baby?

But I knew why I had a double stroller.

I wondered if Kalea had been there that morning— sitting beside her brother— close, but just beyond what my eyes could see.

Like the night shortly after Kalea had passed away when David and I were putting Payson to bed. We started singing the primary song “Here We Are Together.” I wasn't thinking about anything as we sang “Here we are together in our family— with Mommy, and Payson, and Daddy, and—” Then a split second of panic hit me and I faltered because I didn't know how to finish that line— Kalea wasn't here and we weren't together as a family. But my husband didn’t hesitate. He sang out “And Kalea” finishing the song I couldn’t sing. For a brief moment I felt her presence fill the room— the feeling of pure joy that was so intrinsically characteristic of her. Of course she's still part of our family and she’s happy when we remember her.

Yet another experience to remind me that despite the empty spaces, she's still here.

Still, it bothers me knowing that when we go out in public what people see is a family of three, not a family of four. It bothers me that people look at David and I and assume that we only have one child when actually we have two. I hate that there will forever be a gaping age gap— like a wound that never healed— between Payson and whoever comes next in our family. I hate that our third baby will look like a second baby. And most of all, I hate that none of her siblings will ever know or carry memories of her.

I feel like I'm sitting on a four-legged chair that's missing a leg. I haven't learned how to keep my balance or figured out how to repurpose it into a 3-legged stool. I keep forgetting that the fourth leg is gone until I lean too far and fall.

After a fall, I sit on the floor feeling so depressed and alone with just Payson. I don’t want to attempt to sit on the chair again. It hurts to keep trying. It wasn't supposed to be like this. My chair was supposed to have four legs like everyone else's. I was supposed to have a two year old AND a one-year-old, not just a two-year-old. I never wanted this perpetually lingering unseen emptiness.

But then I remember… It isn't as unseen as it feels. Because everyone who knows us knows about the missing leg too.

Like our early intervention child life specialist who video calls into our home every week to help with Payson's developmental delays.

We started working with her about two months before Kalea passed away. Recently, after a particularly helpful session, I told her how grateful I was. She's been more than just a help for Payson-- she's been a faithful friend in my home every week to help me shoulder and adjust to the heavy load of mothering through grief. Her response caught me off guard and surprised me.

She said, “I want you to know that I still see her.” Her eyes teared up on the video feed. “I still see her sitting there.” She pointed to the empty space beside Payson. “I still see her on the floor happy and playing. I just wanted you to know that I still see her.”

My eyes welled up with tears and I couldn't hold it back. I sat on the floor and cried for a long time after our call ended because of how healing it was that someone else could see her in the emptiness she left behind.

Despite how alone I sometimes feel, I know that her loss has not been invisible. Mercifully, both of my hardest trials have been extremely visible.

Payson's epilepsy, his developmental delays, and the loss of Kalea were all things everyone around us could plainly see. Our pain, the wreckage of loss, our struggle to rebuild and move forward, and the dance between grief and faith have all been totally visible. I've split my heart open, typed it out, and held it up. Nothing about this has been invisible.

So I’ve started experiencing something that feels like survivor's guilt. Because of the visible nature of our trials, we’ve received a literal flood of love, care, and support. Miracle after miracle from people who have extended arms of compassion to us. It's made me think about how my own grief has been calmed and quelled— my burdens lifted and my darkness lightened. I’ve received strength and hope as I’ve been succored by so many.

I’ll keep saying this as long as I live— it’s been life changing.

And then my mind turns to people with truly invisible trials— infertility, miscarriage, anxiety, depression, addictions, struggles with pornography, marital issues, infidelity, financial burdens, loneliness, heartbreak, abuse, health challenges, debilitating insecurities, and the list goes on.

All these trials not everyone can see and can't always be shared. My heart breaks because I don't know how you get through those things alone. And yet that is exactly what is asked of you— to shoulder the pain alone and without the open support and love I wish everyone could experience.

I've pondered this and I think the best we can do is to take seriously the command to bear one another's burdens and make time to know what’s truly going on in the lives that touch ours. Because actually everybody is missing a leg from their chair too.

It’s like this piece of music my husband loves. A variation of Vivaldi’s four seasons. (It's instrumental, so hit play while you finish reading.)

There are two main elements in this piece— the light, playful melody and the low, somber yet complementary undertones that ground the piece and give it richness and depth.

The melody is made up of short, brief staccato notes. The notes weave in and out— coming and going almost as fast as you hear them. This is like the happy, fun times in our lives. But the sound of the rising undertone is like grief and growth—the effectual struggle— the only constant in the piece.

That warm, rich, heavy sound of grief holds and carries the entire song. It isn't the high, lighthearted melody that makes the song beautiful— it's the combination of both the high and low parts dancing and weaving together that create a mesmerizing melody.

So it is with our lives— it isn't the happy moments that make our lives beautiful and rich— it’s the happy moments combined and in balance with the moments of grief.

Whether our grief is seen or unseen it's a transformative process that allows our heart to soften— find connection and meaning— and ultimately become like the Savior as we experience our own moments of joy and anguish.

I received a blessing several months before Kalea passed away that said “The Savior wants you to know Him, and you will come to know Him as you are a mother.” I thought that was really weird at first because yes, Christ knows everything and experienced all of it, but He was a man— what could He know about being a mother?

But when I read the prophet Isaiah’s description of Him— that He was “a man of sorrows acquainted with grief” I understand that maybe His invitation to know Him was actually an invitation to become personally acquainted with grief and sorrow myself.

To all struggling with seen and unseen wounds— if this is your season of change and grief—know that grief is a sacred space.

It's where the Savior stood to fill His divine commission. It’s the place where the Savior came to personally know you, and where you will personally come to know Him. Grief is where His great work was finished. Grief is the meeting place between man and God. Grief is a God-like experience— the place where you need God most.

When you are tired. When you can’t go another step. When you want to give up. When your heart feels like it won’t ever be whole again— this is where grief becomes grace. He will meet you where you are— alone in your agony. And you will be alone with one— the only one who understands your grief and pain perfectly. As the sun begins to shine through the darkness, you will see that you were never really alone all along. He has always been there. There are no empty spaces.