Priorities

One year ago, at this time tonight, JG and I were sitting on our couch talking. I remember thinking how everything in my life was finally coming together.  I remember telling him that I was the happiest I had ever been. 

A few hours later, everything changed.   My phone rang around midnight and the first thought I had was "something is wrong, please God don't let it be Shannon." Why I had that thought is beyond me.  I do believe she was on the forefront of my mind the past month because of her eye surgery and because she was so excited that we were going to have Elodie.

My dad explained to me that Shannon had had a brain aneurysm, gave me a brief synopsis of the nights events, and as he continued to stay positive, told me they were flying her to U of M.  I knew she was gone then.  Out of all of the sadness and disbelief that would unfold in the days ahead, the moments after hanging up the phone were the ones where I was most in shock.  I wanted to hope and believe.  I still prayed like crazy. But in my heart I knew she was gone long before arriving in Ann Arbor.

I walked into the hospital room and when my brother desperately asked me to talk to her, all that I could think is "but she isn't here." 

Short increments of time during those first few weeks haunt me every single day.  To the point where I do not even want to share them.  I will never forget the words, the images, the feelings, the pleas, the denial, and the overwhelming sorrow that ensued minute after minute during that period of time.  My heart had never felt that way before, nor will it ever be the same. Those days that I hugged my brother, sat next to him, layed next to him, walked by his side and held his hand with not a single word of reassurance to utter, I learned what love really was. And in all of the horror of losing the closest to a sister I ever had, I learned what it felt to truly love. Whenever I think of Shannon or my brother, I am jolted into remembering how powerful and painful love can be. After this experience, I believe that love is breathtakingly beautiful while simultaneously capable of being horrifically heart wrenching and cruel.

I always told myself that after the first year I would force myself to share this story. I guess I just was not ready to before that. Losing Shannon was the hardest lesson I have ever had to learn. 

A few weeks before she passed away I was home overnight for work.  My mom was making dinner for us, Shannon was coming over, and I was going to be a little late because I had to visit a foster home to see a child there.  They did not have a clock anywhere in sight and I had left my phone in the car. I ended up staying over four hours.  Shannon had texted and called multiple times because she was worried about me. 

When I finally arrived home she sat at the table looking at Elodie's ultrasound pictures, visited for a short while, and then told me she had to go to bed because she had to work in the morning.  We hugged, she told me she loved me and I told her that I loved her, and she walked away.  As she was walking away I had this random crazy thought that it would be the last time I would see her. I can still picture the exact moment like it was frozen; what she was wearing, doing, and how she looked. I told myself that I must be really stressed because I had the same crazy thought on the ride to the Sault when she had texted my phone. I was sure it was just my anxiety, as I become more high strung and sensitive when I am overtired and stressed.  

Unfortunately, I was not crazy. I did not listen or pay the least bit of attention to my gut feelings.  And being the workaholic that I was, I do not have a mind full of memories of Shannon and I from that night because I chose to work excessively when I did not have to.  I only had one conversation with her about Elodie.  I knew she was excited but I do not have a single memory of what she said about having a new niece. After she died, I found the "It's a girl" candy that my mom had used to tell family members about Elodie in Shannon's pantry.  I hadn't wanted to keep it because I am just not sentimental.  Shannon was.

I am not the type of person to beat myself up over regrets but that night has always been hard for me to let go of.  I now work because I have to, not because I love to.  I never work over full time and  it is now my preference to work a little under.  I care about the kids I work with and I care that I help them but not at the expense of all of the people I love.  That is where it stops. 

I know that Shannon knew I loved her, so I don't worry about that. And I was able to spend quite a bit of time with her when I was home in August.  Which I am very grateful for. But I will never get back that night with her. 

For me, her loss also represents the realization that any one of us could be the next to go.  And as unrealistic as it is, I so badly do not want that, so it has created a fear in me that waxes and wanes depending upon the day.  I try really hard to force myself to be at peace and remember that most things are out of my control.  To be thankful my brother is doing as well as he is because it could be so much worse.  To imagine Shannon in a heaven that is far greater than here so that maybe I will someday be able to stop wishing her back to us.  But try as I might, it just doesn't typically work.  I often end up tearful, angry, and feeling like I am suffocating. 

So I then tell myself to focus on what I can control.  Which is building a life of love instead of a life of work.  Letting work be something I do rather than something I am.  Allowing my house to get messy/dirty so I can spend time with family and friends or push Ell around the house in her play car 30 times.  So when I feel myself getting amped up over my to-do list instead of being present and enjoying the people I love, I try stop and imagine it is my last day here.  And because of Shannon...my priorities instantly become exactly what they should be.