Survival Mode

When I think about the days and weeks immediately following Jocelyn's birth, I literally have no idea how we did the things we did.

I don't know how we managed to sleep or eat or sometimes even breathe.
I don't know how we managed to go to the funeral home and plan her service.
I don't know how we managed to design a headstone or attend her memorial service (Although I do remember threatening to not go and/or go in my pjs).
I don't know how we managed to even walk out of the hospital the day after her birth.

I don't know how in the hell we managed at all.

But we did. We did all of those things.

I like to call it survival mode. Some may call it shock or denial or detachment. But I like survival mode much better.
The mind, the body, the spirit - it just all goes on auto pilot.
And somehow, we survive.

We do things that are entirely unimaginable, until the time comes for them to be done. Then, it's just done.

I saw a new therapist a couple of weeks ago. (Yes, I am in therapy in case you were concerned about my mental health.)
I mentioned this concept of survival mode pretty nonchalantly.
She stopped me.
She reminded me that I need not downplay my survival. She reminded me that just walking this road each day counts as a great achievement.
She reminded me to give myself credit, where credit is due. And grace, where grace is needed.
She reminded me that it's not just being in survival mode. It is being a survivor.

It's so easy to focus on all the pain and dysfunction and negativity because those things are such powerful forces in grief. And plus hello? Dead babies are pretty fucking negative. (Remember my morbid warning? This is nothing.)
But it's so important, at least for me, to acknowledge progress in grief.

I deserve to be proud that I got out of bed. And that when I was in bed, I actually slept.
I get to consider breakfast, coffee, and a touch of makeup to be success. Because it is, damn it!
I get to celebrate the fact that I drove to work without having to pull over and do the cry/puke/hyperventilate thing.

There are no small feats in grief. Everything is a big deal. Everything counts. Everything matters.

 We are survivors. When push comes to shove - we can, we do, and we will.

And we get to be proud.