Coming Home

Few people understand my overwhelming need to move back to Illinois and that's ok...they don't have to. I understand it. This is where Brittany is...to me, anyway. However, I have been frequently reminded that "Brittany isn't really here anymore." Yes, I know that. I know exactly where she is. She's in Heaven. But the thought of being 800 miles away from her was too much for me to bear. Even now, nearly seven months later, that need is still just as urgent as my need is to breathe. That's how I grieve. It's how I still grieve.

Brett was incredibly supportive of my request to move back. I don't know many husbands who would do that and I hope he knows how much I love him for it. In fact, he never even tried to persuade me otherwise. He was witnessing my pain firsthand and he could probably see the desperation in my eyes. So, we left everything behind...jobs, my son's school and friends, our beautiful home near the ocean, sunny skies...a world I didn't belong in anymore. I belong here...with my little girl. My life in Florida seems like a distant memory to me now, albeit a much warmer one.

Every single day after Brittany died I would spend hours sitting with her at Arborcrest...even on the days when the heat index was 112. I was oblivious to it. I always took a blanket and often layed beside her. I cried...a lot...talked to her, played her favorite music she has on her iPhone, finished reading a book aloud to her that she was never able to complete. I yelled out loud to God...screamed, actually...begging and pleading Him to give her back to me. Rationally, I knew that wasn't likely, but I was desperate...and anything but rational. The two weeks it took us to get back up to Illinois (yes, we moved that quickly) were extremely agonizing. I felt like I had abandoned her. What if she thought I wasn't coming back? I couldn't breathe. Sometimes, even though I knew it wasn't real, I could hear Brittany call out for me. I wasn't hearing voices and I'm not crazy. I was fully cognizant of the fact that it was just my need to be with her and not some dillusional reality I had created for myself. In fact, even now, I can sometimes still hear her crying out for me...and I'm not ashamed to admit it. She's my little girl and I wasn't able to protect her from this horrific accident. Isn't it every parent's need and want to protect their children, even when the circumstances are completely beyond their control?

To this day...rain, shine, blistering heat, sleet, snow or "snowpocalypse"...I make my weekly drive to Effingham to visit her...and once summer comes and my son is out of school, those visits will be much more frequent. It's what I need. It's how I grieve. It's where I feel I belong. It's where I feel most connected to her...regardless of what others may think or fail to understand.