Everyone keeps telling me that the only remedy for my grief is time. Time for me to heal, time for me to grow, time for me to get used to the fact that all of this is real. Time. It is one of the stranger things people say to comfort me when I really think about it, because as true as it is, what am I supposed to do with that? Time is just another reminder of one more thing I can’t control. I know they’re right though, time will make it better. I don’t feel a difference daily but when I look back at where I was six months ago I am amazed at how much I have healed physically and mentally, but still I hurt. I remind myself that it really hasn’t been that long since Ava was born, only seven months have passed. I look at how much progress I have made in such a short period of time, and I tell myself it will get better. I find myself repeating the words everyone keeps saying to me, I just need more time. Some days I wish I could make it go faster. 

Some days I wish I could speed up the clock. Some days I find myself sitting and waiting, almost counting down the hours until the sun will rise on another day so that time will put even more distance between me and my grief, but those days are few and far between. As much as I want the next day and month and year to come as fast as possible, I don’t want it to go too fast. I don’t want to miss my life because I’m waiting for it to move forward. I want to appreciate and cherish every moment, and I want to savor my time with my sweet Logan. I want the days of laying in our special fort, and spontaneous hugs and whispers and giggles about our own inside jokes to last forever. I want more than anything for my pain to ease, but I want to love and appreciate every moment with Logan even more because they may never come again.

Before I know it, Logan will be out of diapers, and dressing himself, and making his own breakfast, and calling me mom instead of mommy, and I may never get the chance to ever do it again. Logan might be my only chance. Logan might be the only child I have the privilege of raising. As much as I want to drink a magic potion that will speed up time or will keep me asleep until my heart doesn’t hurt so much, I can’t because his last diaper might be my last diaper too. As much as a grieve for the child I lost I celebrate my child on Earth even more. My proof for loving Ava so deeply is the pain I carry in my heart and in a strange way I cherish my grief. When the wound is open, raw and fresh it is not only a reminder of my love for Ava, but a reminder of how little time truly has passed since her death and how much more time I have left with Logan, how much more time I have left as his “mommy.”

Of course, all of this bargaining with time is pointless because, like many things in my life, I cannot control the passage of time. Regardless of what I do an hour will still be 60 minutes and a day will still be a day. The sun will rise and set day after day, and time eventually will pass. With time Ava’s death will start to hurt less, and Logan will grow into a man, but it is the moments in between that will matter most. Instead of wishing life would speed up, or dreaming about a day when my heart won’t hurt so much I choose to be present now. I get out of my bed every morning and live my life every day. I take my grief 60 seconds at a time while I cherish being Logan’s mommy for those same 60 seconds. My life is here and my life is now, and I refuse to miss any part of it just to spare myself the pain. I will tick away the moments of intense heartbreak while simultaneously celebrating the milestones in Logan’s life until one day, hopefully, the pain will occupy a much smaller place in my soul. I just need to give it more time.