Lightning Crashes

I'm holding Eloise, my 14-week-old daughter, on a Sunday morning. I've never been happier.

But my brain has space now—the kind of quiet space that only comes on weekends—to think about the fact that my mom died two weeks ago.

Holding both of those things at the exact same time is really, really hard.

If I move fast enough, the awareness of how I'm feeling won't catch up with me. Which is why I've been hating weekends recently.

I always knew that launching a new company the same year I was becoming a father was going to be intense. But it's the kind of busy I've needed. The weekdays are a gift—Eloise, the company, the investors, the beautiful chaos of building something while learning how to be a dad.

I've wanted to be a father since forever. I'm finally living that dream. The joy is immense.

But on slow Sunday mornings like this one, I can't help but wonder: What would this joy look like if I wasn't also a grieving son?

And then immediately: How much harder would losing my mom be if I didn't have Eloise?

Both questions are impossible. Both questions are the only things I can think about.

They only shared the earth for twelve weeks.

My mom and Eloise. Twelve weeks of overlap. I got to introduce them the days before my mom died. One weekend together. Three generations in the same room.

And then the cycle continued.

There's this song by Live called "Lightning Crashes." I can't get it out of my head:

Lightning crashes, a new mother cries
Her placenta falls to the floor
The angel opens her eyes, the confusion sets in
Before the doctor can even close the door

Lightning crashes, an old mother dies
Her intentions fall to the floor
The angel closes her eyes, the confusion that was hers
Belongs now, to the baby down the hall

The confusion that was hers belongs now to the baby down the hall.

I can't stop thinking about that line.

My mom had Alzheimer's.

Over the past couple of years, I watched her confusion grow. She'd forget her words. Or how to use headphones. Or where she was. Over the past six months, who people were and how to do things she'd done her whole life. She was losing her ability to navigate the world, piece by piece, returning to a state of complete dependence.

And now I'm watching Eloise—brand new to this world—figure out how to exist in it. Learning what her hands do. That she has feet. That when she's hungry, someone comes. She's building her understanding from zero, creating the exact neural pathways my mom was losing.

The confusion my mom carried—the disorientation, the searching, the vulnerability—it's the same confusion Eloise has. But in reverse.

One was forgetting how to be in the world. The other is just learning.

My mom needed help with everything at the end. So does Eloise now.

The difference is: Eloise's confusion is temporary. It's the beginning of something. Every day she's less confused than the day before. Every week she understands a little more. I can see it in real time.

My mom's confusion only grew. It was the ending of something. And every day, there was a little less for her to hold onto.

That day I introduced them—my mom seeing me hold Eloise—I saw it in her eyes that she wanted to say something, but she didn't have her words at the end.

Two people, both completely dependent on others. Both trying to make sense of the world around them. Both deserving of my infinite patience and love.

My mom looked at Eloise with this soft recognition and a slight smile.

And Eloise—who doesn't know anything about what was happening in the room—was calm in her presence.

The confusion that was hers belongs now to the baby down the hall.

Not as a burden. As a transfer. As the way life moves forward.

I've moved on from taking it hour by hour to taking it day by day—during the week. But on weekends, it's still hour by hour. And slow weekend hours have a way of making sure I remember: I lost my mom two weeks ago.

People keep asking how I'm doing. I don't know how to answer that.

I'm devastated. I'm grateful. I'm exhausted. I'm in love with being Eloise's dad. I'm angry my mom won't see her grow up.

I'm overwhelmed by how much I have. I'm gutted by what I've lost.

And it is all true at the exact same time.

Maybe you're holding two impossible things at once, too.

If you are, I see you. It's really, really hard.

But we keep going. Hour by hour, if we have to.

Lightning crashes. That's how fast everything can change. The joy and the loss arrive in the same flash, illuminating everything.

The confusion passes from one generation to the next.

That's not tragic. That's just life continuing.

Even when it feels impossible to hold.