Perfectly Imperfect

“You are a crayon in a drawer full of pencils; Life is far more brighter with you in it.”

Something I don’t talk about too often is the grief I feel when I think about the child Ian was before his brain injury and the child he is now, after the brain injury. I don’t like to talk about it because it’s normally accompanied with “But at least he’s here.”

And you are 1000% right about that. And I never want to sound ungrateful for that. Especially when I feel nothing but immense gratitude that I’m still able to make more memories and love my baby.

But not talking about alllllllll of the feelings this journey has brought would be an injustice on the reason I started this blog in the first place: to express my feelings, use my voice for good, and give others a connection to their own feelings to help even just one person.

And so this night has brought me that grief once again. As I watch old videos of Ian and compare that version of him to the version he is now in this moment.

I miss the way he used to smile. It was a big grin, ear-to-ear. All of his teeth showing. The most wonderful site to any parent. But now, while Ian smiles, I notice it’s not as wide because of the weakness on his right side. I always talk about his arm and leg having weakness, but his face does too, which affects the way he smiles.

But when Ian smiles now, it is so genuine. So wholesome. A small indication that he is happy, despite all the obstacles he’s had to face. He doesn’t let it define him or slow him down or stop him from loving life. He finds joy in the smallest of things, and I’m so much more appreciative of these beautiful opportunities.

I miss the way he used to jump and run around. So wild and carefree. There were plenty of days I wanted my rambunctious toddler to stop getting into EVERYTHING, but now, I want nothing more then to have that back. I want him to be able to play, run, jump, swing, dance, climb, just everything. Because now we have to be like helicopter parents when he walks, right on top of him, making sure he doesn’t fall. He can’t do steps by himself. He can’t climb up onto anything or down from anything without needing assistance. It’s just so hard to look back now and know my child was so incredibly active and independent but now can no longer do things the way he used to.

But he’s getting stronger every single day. And I pray for the day he can gain the strength back in his right side to be able to do whatever it is he wants to do.

I miss the silly things he used to say and do. I even miss the tantrums on some days. Ian doesn’t really get mad, angry, or even really upset anymore. He’s pretty happy all the time, which isn’t a bad thing at all, but again, just grieving the child he once was. And simultaneously thanking God for answered prayers.

He’s perfectly imperfect. And he makes the world brighter just being in it.

I’m relearning Ian. And it’s been the most bittersweet experience. I have an overwhelming sense of gratitude that he is still physically here, but who he is today is not who he was before that dreadful day. I see glimpses come back, I see new things come out. But either way, I’m learning and embracing who Ian is now.

I wanted to make this post to connect with those who may be feeling something similar. I hope I can help someone out there find the words that even I struggled with while writing this. It took me awhile to realize what I was even feeling. And when I did realize it, I felt crazy for calling it “grief.”

“He’s right here with me, how can I be grieving?”

But this is a different type of grief. The kind where a person you love is no longer who they once were. Whether that’s because of a traumatic brain injury, like Ian, or dementia, addiction, and so on. You knew your loved one before these things, and now you see how it’s changed them. You notice a shift in your relationship. And it’s okay to grieve what once was. Even while they are still with you here on Earth side.

I know it can be hard to talk about. It can be hard for people to understand this if it’s not something they have had to go through. Something I used to really struggle with is expressing how I felt about what was going on because it would immediately be diminished.

“At least it’s not this.” “Some people have it worse.” Etc., etc.

That may be true. In fact, it probably is, right? Someone always has it worse than us. BUT that does not give anyone the right to take away from your experiences. The worst thing that ever happened to you, is the worst thing that ever happened to you. You don’t know any worse kind of pain than the pain you have felt from the experiences you have had. And it’s so incredibly important to TALK about those things. You can’t be silenced and be expected to keep it bottled up. Spreading awareness, talking about these hard topics, these open the door for conversations. Conversations that can create real and powerful changes. Whether it’s in the entire world or just to one person who lives down the street from you. Your experience matters.

It’s okay to grieve and feel what you feel. Sit with the pain. And once you have acknowledged it, work to let it go and start focusing on the present moment and what you are going to do next. This won’t be solved in one sitting or two or even ten. It will take multiple times, over and over again, because it has to be a continuous choice you make each day. A choice to acknowledge the pain, loss, sadness, and anger you are feeling, and then choosing to not let it consume your entire life.

I’m opening myself up to what life is now for us. Things have inevitably changed. There will be, and have been, hard days, but there have been, and will be, sweet and joyous days, too.

If you made it this far, thank you for reading.

If you made it this far and can relate, I see you.

You are seen. You are heard. I understand. You are validated in your feelings. Whatever they are today. And every day. You are not alone.