Grief

I've led a pretty charmed life. My exposure to loss and grief has been fairly minimal. With that in mind I wondered how I would feel as I worked through the emotions of Jenna's passing. I must say I've been knocked over by the intensity of it.

Prior to this, the height of emotion surrounding a death occurred at the funerals I've attended or at the time of the phone call giving me the news that someone I knew and loved had passed away. I certainly experienced lingering periods of sadness and spent plenty of time thinking about memories I shared with that person. I cried off and on over a period of time, but as the saying goes, time heals all wounds. As time passed, it really did get easier to think of my loved one with a smile instead of tears.

My most intense visits with grief have been with people I didn't spend much time with. A friends' 9 year old daughter who, coincidentally, died of Leukemia, a friends’ dad who passed away unexpectedly at a young age, my husbands’ 14 year old nephew who committed suicide.

Each of those funerals was incredibly difficult.

Jenna's funeral was incredibly difficult.

Based on history, I expected her wake and funeral to be the hardest moments of dealing with the loss of such a wonderful friend. I was so naive. I had yet to understand just how difficult life would be without her. I've spent hours in the middle of the night tossing and turning, thinking of Jenna and trying to stay in a dream that she was a part of. (Interestingly enough, she's had long hair in my dreams each night. I can't help but think it's because she's free from cancer now.) I've had moments where I wanted to tell her something and after I hit her number on speed dial or commit it to memory so I can tell her at a later time, I remember...I can't tell her. I break into tears over nothing. Then I start thinking about the fun times we had, about the funny stories we shared, about the beautiful children she left behind and what a legacy she left them with her blog and love of pictures.

There are moments of peace, knowing that Jenna and Will are together in Heaven along with the two babies she miscarried. There are moments of anger because Ashlee, Kait and Jake are much too young to have lost the mother who dedicated her life to them. There is intense sadness for the husband she shared a great love with, the brother who was prepared to save his sister's life, the sister who lost her mentor, the mother who lost not only a daughter but a friend, the dad who spent days next to his daughter's hospital bed in the midst of his own health issues, the mother in law that loved her like a daughter not a daughter in law, the sister in law that lost a friend and a constant cheerleader. The list could go on and on because Jenna touched so many people. She was better than anyone I know at keeping in touch with those she cared about and she really cared about most people she knew.

As I try to wrap my head and my heart around her loss, I feel myself withdrawing. It's hard to talk with people that didn't know Jenna because I feel like my grief radiates from me. It's hard to talk with friends that are as grief stricken as I, because that much grief is painfully intense. It's hard to talk about the daily minutia because it seems so inconsequential. It's hard to think about the monumental loss that Jenna's family and friends are dealing with. To put it bluntly, grief sucks.

I've done this withdrawl thing once before in my life. Our numerous IVF's and miscarriages had me raw, antisocial and physically and emotionally exhausted. Jenna was such a great friend during that time. (Just for the record, she was always a great friend, but especially so during that time.) She constantly called and invited me to things and rarely took no for an answer. She offered to watch Ryan so Wayne and I could have time together. She, and a couple others, listened to my endless talk of shots, embryos, sperm samples, follicles, ICSI, insurance and betas. Between her constant calls and invites, and some much needed time with my mom, I slowly started to live in the moment again.

So here's my question...with Jenna gone, how do I remember to live in the moment?

I guess the answer to that is in the moments of laughter I share with friends as we reminisce about our times with Jenna. It's in the belly laughs my son lets out when he's done something funny. It's in the bunny kisses my daugher initiates numerous times each day. It's in the kisses from my husband and conversations with those I love. I know Jenna wouldn't want people to be sad, well at least not for long, but I also know it's human nature to mourn. Living in the moment will be back, but for now I grieve the loss of my friend and try to remember to appreciate the little things.