I stall, paralysed by pain and indecision. The way ahead of me is completely unknown — and the challenges are huge — so I would rather do nothing.

In memory of Elijah Rainbow Fisher

Last night, I lay awake while the girls slept around me. I listen to their breathing and feel so sad — mostly for David and the greater losses he has to come to terms with. I’m sorry for the friendships he has that are now put on hold or completely abandoned, I mourn the fact that the baby boy he so tenderly caught from my body at birth is now unable to call him “Daddy”, and I weep for the way he is missing out on the affection of those he loves — especially our girls.

My heart breaks for the way our life is now broken too. Now that crucial pieces are missing, I know that the picture will never return to its original state. I just hope that the mosaic that is being formed from all the broken shards will also make a pretty picture, but how I hate mosaics in real life.

Our girls are eager for life, ready for adventures and friends. They embrace new experiences like they always have, and Elijah’s death doesn’t have to be the end of the world as they know it. It depends on me and my attitude towards life. If I can remain enthusiastic for learning, for visiting friends, for new experiences, then they will find the strength to remain the joyous creatures they’ve always been.

But I stall. I have so much to learn about a range of topics, as I have to also fill the role that David played in our lives. This transition phase is so painful, even in a spiritual sense, and I wish I did not have this section of the journey to travel.

It’s so daunting that I stall.

Perhaps joy will come with the morning.