Connor's Door

A month or so after Connor died a friend sent me a quote of something Helen Keller had said:

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us."

I remember writing back to my friend about how (at the time) I didn't want to move away from Connor's door, which had just closed.

What a mixture of emotions I was feeling. At the time when most people were telling me that "It would get better" as time passed, I didn't want it to get better. I didn't want time to pass. I didn't want to move away from the door that had just closed. I didn't want to move on or move away from it. I didn't want it to get better or easier - because that meant that I had to move away from it (so to speak). I wasn't ready for this experience to end.

During the first few months I remember feeling almost entirely overwhelmed by the prospect of living with this huge hole of pain in my heart for the rest of my life. "Living with this pain for the rest of my life" seemed almost impossible to fathom.

Now that I am seven months out from Connor's birth and death I am starting to understand what they meant. It's not quite so overwhelming to me - but I still don't want to move away from his door.

I learned something about myself several weeks ago. I was talking with a friend whose daughter passed away two months ago. She said something and it made me realize that I have not done certain things (take down Connor's room or make his scrapbook), because as soon as I do - it's done. Nothing to ever add to it. And I'm not ready to be done with it. I'm not ready for that door to close.

The day after our "big" ultrasound, I called C. She is a neat person who lost a daughter to a similar condition. I spoke with her and she was so helpful and so compassionate. I remember her telling me that it took her 3 years after her daughters passing to make her scrapbook. I was surprised that she waited so long to make it.

But now I'm not.

I'm not even close to being ready to make Connor's. It will be the only one I'll get to make for him in this lifetime, and I'm not ready to be done.

I guess I'm still looking back at the closed door (or crouching at the bottom of it). But I'm to the point that I am glancing away from it from time to time. I'm starting to see a few open doors down the hall, but not yet ready to venture far from Connor's.

If you know of someone who is grieving...please don't place an imaginary "grieving time" on them. Don't think that it will be over in six months or a year. Remember that your life has moved on, but their lives will never be the same.

My parents got divorced when I was 16 and I don't think I really dealt with it fully until I served a mission when I was 21. I shared this with a friend and she said "You aren't over that yet?"

Her comment stung me and I immediately felt embarassed for sharing that private information with her. But I also realized she had never experienced such a thing and if she knew this now, she'd probably be embarassed that she made such a comment.

Let people hang out at their closed doors for awhile. Go sit down and visit with them and admire their door. These are the types of things which will help them want to come away from it someday.

Spencer and I sense that people avoid us since Connor's passing. But I'm grateful for those who do come to our "door." They have held up our hands while they've been hanging down.