Signs of Mila fill my home. Her stroller. Her walker. Her bean bag chair. I open a kitchen drawer to find feeding tubes or one of her hair ties. I come across a pair of her socks hiding in a bin of Azlan's toys. Part of me wants to leave everything just as it is. But another part wants to move on. The other day, I walked by Mila's stander and I felt the sudden urge to move it, so I did. I wonder, can I find a delicate balance between holding on and letting go?
When Mila died, I fought to make it to the end of each day. A good friend who experienced great loss told me the pain would dull, but over time I would wish I could feel it more sharply. As my days start to look and feel more normal, when the sadness comes on I find myself physically holding onto whatever I can find, allowing that shooting pain to return. Perhaps it's the pain that brings me closer to Mila. An expression of my love for her.
There are different parts inside me, each with their own feeling and voice. Some days, I awaken with the relaxed part who feels great relief. As my day unfolds, out of nowhere, the deeply and perpetually sad part stands up and cries. Then, after the pain sweeps through and the tears begin to dry, I feel the part of me who longs to look back, opening the albums and smiling at the small things that brought me such joy.
Mila's bedroom has felt so empty, so quiet. But it's filled with emotions. Some days they push me away. On others they pull me in. I haven't felt comfortable moving her bed or changing the feel of the room. But I found a space by her window, between the fairy curtains I sewed for her when she was little, and I placed my small desk. Every morning, I sit and work on my foundation toward a brighter future for rare disease. While I type, I stop, sit back and notice the light and warmth I now feel in Mila's room. This is where I want to be.
