Hope Floats With a Good Boob Grab

When Shale died I remember sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, traveling towards the funeral home to make arrangements to bury our son and marveling at all the cars we passed on the highway.

The people in those vehicles carried on like nothing had happened, like no one had died. Their lives were unaffected by the tragedy my family suddenly found itself mired in, and I couldn't wrap my head around that.

Surely the world should stop and take notice of my pain, I thought through the onslaught of tears that poured down my face.

My world did take notice, and I'm forever grateful to the community that held me up and kept me strong through my darkness. But the whole world? It just kept marching on, oblivious to one mother's pain, unaware the vortex of grief and misery created in a whole world of people's lives by the absence of one little boy.

I'll never forget that feeling, knowing life carries on whether I liked it or not.

Yesterday, a friend of mine, a young mother of three, suffered a stroke and is currently in the ICU fighting for her life, for her recovery.

I wasn't going to write about this, because the pain is hard, it brings the scary place back to my door step, a place I struggle to stay away from on the best day.

But then I remembered sitting in a Los Angeles diner, a scuzzy little run down place, having the best brunch I've ever eaten, sitting across from my friend and talking about the scary place we've each had to face.

I remembered talking with her quietly, earnestly about parenting, husbands, life.

I remembered all the joy I shared with her, from boob grabbing and car crashes to standing next to her as she held me up to face my own dark place once again as we said goodbye to a child we loved.

I remembered sitting in that passenger seat on my way to the funeral home, watching vehicles pass by me filled with people  carrying on with their lives as my life screeched to a sudden stop and wanting, needing, the whole world to stop and stand with me for a moment to recognize the pain I was in.

So I am writing. For you my friend. For your husband, for your kids. For every person who knows and loves you.

My world may carry on while yours is at a standstill, but I promise you, I am here for you, beside you while you navigate your own dark place.

I promise to help shine a light as best I can for you and your family until you are back to health, glowing with your radiant beauty once again.

I love you Anissa.

Please come back to us.


Hope floats Nissa. We're all here to help you find it.