{that} moment

...when you learn that your child has died. {that} moment is tough to describe.

it's shock.
it's a knife through your heart, up your chin, and out your mouth.
it's disbelief.
it's life-ending, earth-shattering, and horrific.

i'll never forget the doctor saying, "i'm sorry...your daughter has passed away". i can feel the lump in my throat; the sting in my eyes. i can still visualize myself on that table, feeling as though if i kicked my legs hard enough, she might come back. i can still see the fog that hung over my face for months...and years after olivia's death. i can remember every detail of {that} moment and sometimes, if i sit quietly for long enough, i'm right there again. i can taste the fall leaves in the air. i smell the hospital and feel the stainless steel beneathe me. i hear silence of the doppler and wonder how i can still be in a world that no longer holds my most precious treasure.

it's funny how your life can be one thing one minute and then completely different the next. how one {second} your child can be alive and then the next {second} they are not.

they say time heals. it doesn't. it changes, but it doesn't heal.

those smells and tastes, thoughts and feelings- they stay buried until something {familiar} triggers a chain reaction. it's then, in {that} moment when you realize you're 8 years in but still one second out.

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this week, a mother i {know} experienced {that} moment. a tragic farming accident claimed the life of her two year old son. there are no words. there are no quick-fixes or inspiring goals to lay before her. it's hard. it's the hardest thing i've ever had to do....to take one foot and place it in front of the other not knowing what's coming and not wanting the breath i'm taking.

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breathe. take the step because although time doesn't heal, hope does.