One of the things that happens to a person when she experiences a trauma is that her brain alters itself in order to allow her to survive the trauma. For the first 4-5 weeks after Cameron’s accident, the scene constantly replayed in my head. I would see it over and over again like I was watching a movie. I finally went to therapy because I knew I couldn’t bear to keep watching it play out, unable to change the outcome. After a few weeks of therapy, the movie was turned off– but other things took its place.

I experienced guilt of huge proportions. Anger, loss of faith, loneliness, bitterness, sheer agony, helplessness. I can’t even explain all the places my mind went trying to grasp what happened to our family. I am really proud of how far I have come and what I’ve been able to accomplish despite my overwhelming, unimaginable loss. But here’s the thing– my brain is still protecting me. And I am torn. On the one hand, I have truly made major strides. I’ve learned to live again, be a mom, a wife, a doctor. I’ve learned to be a friend. I regained some passion for what is important to me in my life. I’ve reconnected with God, who never gave up on me. But… I’ve lost so much in the process. I’ve lost Cameron, that goes without saying and yet I must say it. But I have lost the thing that made me, well, me. I’m not sensitive. I rarely cry. I don’t emotionally attach to situations, stories, people. I am blocked. In my head I can be mad, happy, frustrated, please, infuriated. But in my heart I am still numb. I don’t feel thinks– I just think them.

So what is so wrong with that? Nothing, in some ways. I mean, it is easier to just be able to hear or see something horrible and think, “That’s terrible” and then be over it. I don’t take my patient’s problems home with me. I don’t worry and worry about things the way I used to. But, I feel empty. I feel less than whole. And I cannot experience Cameron the way I want to, the way she deserves. And I know it is just because it would hurt too much. I appreciate what my brain is trying to do for me. But, God, I miss Cameron. Not just her being here, but what she meant to me. She was my first born, the baby I worked so hard to conceive. The sweetest and cutest and smartest little jewel of my heart. How can I survive her? What kind of mother am I to be able to go on as if it is okay that she is gone? How do I keep her real, her name and spirit alive, when my brain works overtime to let me forget?

So maybe when I go on this 3 day- 60 mile walk, I will learn to feel again. I will be able to honor her life and feel her presence with me. I hope to have a truly emotional and religious experience. I hope to feel alive and know that she is with me, every step of the way!!!