Shotgun Blast

You may have noticed, I like metaphors.  To me, they are a natural way to explain things.   Sometimes a run of the mill explanation isn't enough.  Sometimes, people need a good comparison to really understand a concept.  Or, maybe I just need metaphors to help me understand what I really mean.  Either way, I have tons of them.   Here's comes another one...

This is a picture of a target that has been blasted with a shotgun.   Notice how there are large, gaping holes, some medium sized holes, and then lots of tiny, little holes.  This happens because when a shotgun fires its charge, the bullet expands and fragments.  The bulk of the bullet hits the original target, and then the smaller shrapnel hits the surrounding areas.  The picture you see above is also a picture of my life.

Losing Kenley tore huge holes in my heart.  Painful, bleeding wounds that will, as I have come to realize, never truly heal.  Everyone knows about the big holes - the horror of losing her, the emptiness she left behind, the grief, the anguish.  The big holes are the obvious pains of loss.    But, this post isn't about those holes.   This post is about all the little holes.  The pinpoints.  The tiny rips created as a result from the original shotgun blast.

There are so many areas where she should be, but is not.   So many little things that are so very different because she is not here.  When I sit on the couch to watch TV, no crying baby interrupts me.   When I walk through the mall, I am not pushing a stroller.   When I get out of my car and close the door, I'm done.  There is nothing else to retrieve.   Although I am still wearing mostly maternity clothes, I do not have to wear nursing attire.  I don't tiptoe through my living room because I just laid the baby down for her nap.  Her absence is an enormous presence - and it reaches into every aspect of my life.  There is nothing that I do that wouldn't be done even slightly differently if she were here.

So, I can be having a successful day in rubbing salve on my big wounds, but the little ones still sting. Although they don't bleed as profusely as the other ones, these holes still hurt, and I still have to help them heal as well.   But there are so many.  Thousands of them.  Thousands of moments packed into every day where I realize that my current actions should not be what they are.     What I am doing should be different.  She should be here, but she's not.  Every moment is a tiny hole.  A little bit of shrapnel that sliced through me.

Having a baby impacts every single microscopic part of your life.  So does not having one.