On Monday, I dropped Conor off for swim lessons, popped back to the house, put the trash cans out on the street, leashed up the dog, and tripped off the ever-so-slightly wonky stairs out the door into the garage.

My ankle twisted. It popped. Loudly. Unnervingly.

Down I went, cursing the whole way.

It’s a very vulnerable feeling, to be sitting (writhing?) on the garage floor, in a lot of pain and trying not to freak out. I called my dad, but he was at the River.

By some miracle, I had just texted with my cousin Aly who had planned to walk past my house on a mission for muffins at Groovy Duck Bakery. I called and she was close! Huzzah!

Here she came, running up my street to my rescue. She got the dog inside, grabbed me a beverage, and of we schlepped to Raleigh ortho.

Thankfully, Erin and Jim are still here, so they snagged Conor from the pool and took him to purchase the promised soccer cleats.

Dad had called Vicki, so she met us there. We made jokes with the receptionist. They were VERY unnerved when I said something to the effect of, “Actually, I find this all very funny. My husband’s funeral was yesterday.”

But look, it was a WILD 24 hours. We’d just spent the previous afternoon surrounded by 160 of our dearest friends and family. More than at our wedding! I somehow managed to give the little speech I’d planned to give and made it through playing one of P’s favorite songs.

Conor had fun with his friends and learning how to play blackjack at The Pour House.

Our friends came over for pizza and whiskey and magic.

It was wonderful and awful and fun and hard and I am really tired of all of these feelings existing all at the same time.

So I’m legit sorry that I was freaking out the people in the urgent care. But man. It’s just a lot.

I’ve felt pretty lonely during all of this, but sitting incapacitated on the floor of my garage, trying to figure out what the heck I would do if my ankle was actually broken (spoiler alert, it’s just a bad sprain) was an unpleasant experience.

My support system is awesome! They were right there and had it all handled.

But it still was just one more place that highlighted his absence. It just keeps going like that. Every day there is something else. Some days it’s big, like the fall. Or like today when I really could have used a “good cop, bad cop” tag-team parenting approach. And some days it’s tiny like having too much extra spaghetti.

Celebrating Preston’s life on Sunday was beautiful. Friends and family performed and drank and hugged and laughed and cried.

And the way my friends and family showed up on Monday to haul my butt to the urgent care was also beautiful.

The steps in my garage, however, are absolutely not beautiful and will be getting replaced POST HASTE.

The day Conor was born, it was very, very cold.

My water broke in the middle of the night, and we headed just down the street to Rex Hospital. The air was crisp and still and bitterly cold, but the stars were bright and it was eerily silent.

By the time we were checked in – and I was jovially bouncing away on a yoga ball – it had started to ice and snow outside.

Of course, no birth story has much jovial bouncing, and it was all down hill from there. Induction, three failed epidurals, 22 hours of labor and 2 hours of pushing, all to end in a rather dramatic c-section.

I didn’t get to meet Conor for about 3 hours. He had fluids in his lungs, (as c-section babies often do) and I was recovering from some heavy bleeding.

By the time he and Preston finally met me in the elevator to go to our room, I was beyond exhausted. But he was precious.

Because I was a total zombie that first day, Preston sprung into action. Suctioning fluid when Conor started to cough, making sure my needs were communicated clearly to the nurses, learning how to swaddle like a pro, and hooking up the breast pump.

He was an absolutely devoted dad from our very first hour as a family of three.

We stayed in the hospital for 4 nights and then brought Conor home to our little townhouse in Hamstead Crossing. I couldn’t go up the stairs yet, and Conor wasn’t sleeping, so I camped out on our big couch downstairs for the first few days.

We were so tired. C had his days and nights mixed up, so he was awake a lot. I was sore from the surgery and from breastfeeding.

Preston was a tax accountant then, so he had to go back to work almost immediately. It was hell. He would wake up at 5 AM, drive to Durham, work until about 7, come home to have dinner with us, and turn the computer on to work from home. I was still sleeping on the couch, and my world was very small.

Sometime in those early days, my parents came over to relieve us. They held Conor (he cried and cried) and we went upstairs to take a nap. We hadn’t slept in the same bed in weeks and I missed being next to him so much.

We crawled into our bed together and I tucked in under his arm and was instantly asleep.

That was always my favorite spot – on his left shoulder with my knee just over his leg. The smell of his deodorant and musk of the day. My hand on his chest just below his heart. His occasional involuntary twitches causing his arm to squeeze me closer to him.

That’s where I go now in my head when I get overwhelmed or scared or feel alone. It’s a safe space to calm my brain. It helps me remember how good it was for so very long. When we were scared and tired and overwhelmed but at peace.

I’ve been going there in my mind a lot lately, as we prepare to celebrate his life tomorrow. We’ve been so busy, and I’m often scared and tired and overwhelmed. Of course, a memory isn’t as powerful as being tucked beside your person.

But it is strong enough to remind me of how lucky we were to have our time together as a little family of three.