I thought in those first months after she died that replaying those minutes in my mind was part of processing, and that after thinking about it enough, it would finally fade. But it actually seemed to be getting worse. I would sit on the couch for hours, feeling nauseous because I was pregnant, and just replaying those horrible memories in my mind, over and over. Eventually I realized that I wasn't processing, I was wallowing. And I tried to stop. But the memory of her choking, and how her body felt in my arms, trying so hard to cough and breathe, would catch me in all sorts of random times and places, and I would be pulled back into that nightmare.
What finally broke that pattern was praying, and God leading me to the realization that by choosing to replay the memory of her choking, I was losing my other sweet memories of Brooke. I was losing the memory of her sitting in my lap in the rocking chair while we read stories. The way her little body felt when I lifted her, warm and slippery, out of the bathtub. The sweet, sweaty baby smell of her after playing in the sunshine. The sound she would make when she wanted to go down to the garden to pick more berries. We couldn't capture all those memories on a camera, especially the smells. It took a long time to throw her almost empty shampoo bottle away, because I would open it in the shower, close my eyes, and remember what her soft little head smelled like. Eventually I did toss that empty bottle, but I don't want to lose that memory.
Memories are funny things. I'm really not sure which of my memories, especially of childhood, are real memories, and which are memories I have created from the stories I've heard. The more a story is told, or the more I reflect on a memory, the more real, vivid, detailed and powerful it becomes. And I was choosing to let the memory of her choking become even bigger than it was, while all my other precious memories were fading.
No one gets through life without experiencing pain and trauma. Those experiences, and how we respond to them, shape who we become. I've been learning to recognize the results of these refining fires in the eyes of people I know. I can see some of the purity and strength of the soul who has held the hand of God while walking this type of road. But I also have more compassion for those I have met who haven't been able to let go of the hurts they have experienced. It is hard to do. Those dark memories can overwhelm everything else. But I believe that God is there with outstretched arms, to guide and strengthen anyone who reaches out to Him. Because He is doing that for me. He's helping me to remember the many moments of sweetness, joy and love, and teaching me that those moments of choking were just Brooke dying. They weren't how she lived, and they aren't part of what she is experiencing now, and they aren't part of what we'll have together in eternity. Dying is a necessary part of life, and this earth life is just a part of the great plan our Heavenly Father has for us.
The pain of losing Brooke is now part of who I am. And that particular refining fire is a long way from burning out. I still have nights when its hard to fall asleep, and I pull up the memory of her choking, and then move into thinking about all the ways I expected this summer to be different, if Brooke was with me. How much she would have enjoyed the splash park, how we would have enjoyed having her at Darren's big family reunion. How she might have reacted to my sister's new baby. I'm still mourning.
But I'm also remembering. And when that dark memory of Brooke choking starts to play in my mind, I pull up a memory of her big, bright, trusting blue eyes as she runs to me to show me her doll, or the sound of her giggles coming from the bedroom as Darren flips her around, or the smell of soft baby skin as I would kiss her neck, or the feel of her body sitting on my hip. There is too much that is sweet and beautiful that I never want to forget.
