Posting things on the internet tends to mean that you want people to read it. And when I write posts, that's part of the reason. I want to share my story, our story. I want to share my pain and my journey onward. This is a part of my heart that was, I think, pretty well padlocked and shut off from the world. I didn't really think I had space and time for other people. I never said that out loud, and I probably never consciously thought that either. But looking back, I can see that Kyla's death ripped that padlocked door off its hinges, for better or worse. So when I sit here and type words like this, I do it partly with the intention of sharing it with other people. And I think that's good. I think we all need to share our experiences a little more. I think we all need to listen to other people a lot more. And I think we'll find ourselves growing when we do that.
But that's not really why I write.
I write because I internalize my thoughts. I write because it's how I process where I am, right then and there. I write because those words are a snapshot of me at that point in time. If I remember right, I've been writing since early high school. It was a lot of cheesy poems back then, a lot of rhyme without much reason. But as I got older, the cheesiness started to fade and I started to wrestle a bit more with who I was and what I wanted from life. Some of them were unnecessarily dramatic, but they were a snapshot of who I was and how I thought. I won't even claim to be good at writing. I'm really not. I'll only claim to be good at visualizing my own thoughts through my own words - for my own sake. I sometimes have a pulsing thought or feeling that's bursting out of me and I can't contain it. So I let it come out and I capture it through these words and hold it here forever. Here, in these words, it's mine and it can't escape.
I do it for me. I do it so that I can look back on my life and walk through it again. It's like taking pictures, but I need more than a picture. I need a depth of emotion that pictures simply don't bring to the table. Pictures can't explain to me where I was the night I was called a hypocrite and told I was incapable of loving anybody - all by a girl I thought I was in love with. Pictures can't capture my tears as I looked up and screamed at the moon. Pictures can't place me back in that night. But that night when I got back to my dorm, I wrote. I wrote because I had to. I wrote because I didn't have anywhere else to put my thoughts. And now I can go back to those words and I can be there again. I'll never be that immature kid again, but I can put myself back in his shoes and learn from it because I captured his exact thoughts and his exact emotions at that exact moment.
Here's one of the pictures we have that we haven't shared before. I've talked a lot about the absolute pricelessness of these few pictures we have of Kyla. And I mean it - they are invaluable. If I didn't have those pictures, I wouldn't remember how awkward she looked most of the time. I wouldn't remember how tightly I was holding Chelsea's hand. I truly believe that. A lot has happened in my life since then and I don't think there'd be room anymore. So those pictures help me come back to that moment and remember those particular parts of it. But pictures can't show me the bewilderment I was feeling that day in the clinic and at the hospital. Pictures didn't capture the moment I didn't support Kyla's head properly and they can't show me the horror and guilty relief I felt when I realized it didn't matter anymore if her neck snapped. Pictures can't remember the words Chelsea said that ripped straight through me: It's impossible to say goodbye. Pictures can't capture my mental follow-up to that: We'll never finish saying goodbye. Pictures can't help me talk to the daughter who never has been and never will be able to talk with me and laugh with me. Pictures can't, but writing can. Writing is me at my best. Writing is me at my worst. Writing is just me.
And that's why I was lying on the hospital couch next to Chelsea's bed, desperately trying to explain my thoughts to myself by writing them on our iPad. I had to write something even though I didn't really know what. I just started typing words. Those words became the "letter" that I wrote to Kyla and published on this blog 10 days after she died. I can read those words again and feel what January 16, 2014 Keenan felt. I can read those words again and process what January 16, 2014 Keenan was thinking. And I need to do that. I need to capture those emotions. I need to experience them again. So while hundreds of people have read our blog or at least parts of it, I read it more than anybody else. I'll sit down on a Sunday morning or a Tuesday night or whatever and take myself back to January 16, 2014. Or June 14, 2014. Or October 27, 2015. Or August 28, 2014 ... and as I type that date, I realize that I didn't remember that I posted that on our wedding anniversary. But there it is: I posted one of my most raw and heartfelt posts about Kyla on our 4th wedding anniversary. That's the power of writing and using it to remember. The list goes on, the posts pile up, and the memories of my thoughts are here for me to experience again whenever I want.
I hope you also get something out of these posts; I really do. Part of me will always want to share other parents' grief with them. Part of me will always want to just hug them and cry with them. Part of me will always want to scream at the world around us that just doesn't seem to want to understand.
But most of me does this for me. Mostly, I want these thoughts to be here for myself to read in 40 years when I'm sitting with Chelsea and reminiscing about our wonderful life together and enjoying spending time with our kids and grandkids. I need to capture these feelings so that 70 year old Keenan remembers what it was like to hold his dead baby in his arms. I need 70 year old Keenan to feel that again just as much as I need myself to feel it now. I also need 70 year old Keenan to remember the depth of the pain that 27 year old Chelsea felt, because 70 year old Chelsea will still be feeling it.
Every time I write, I say something new. Somehow, while writing, I remember something else about the silent hospital room or how I felt or what Chelsea said or how limp Kyla's body was. And as more time passes and more posts are written, I can continue to piece the whole thing together. I can look back and see the progression of my pain. Always there ... but always changing. This is how I think. This is how I process. This is why I write.
But that's not really why I write.
I write because I internalize my thoughts. I write because it's how I process where I am, right then and there. I write because those words are a snapshot of me at that point in time. If I remember right, I've been writing since early high school. It was a lot of cheesy poems back then, a lot of rhyme without much reason. But as I got older, the cheesiness started to fade and I started to wrestle a bit more with who I was and what I wanted from life. Some of them were unnecessarily dramatic, but they were a snapshot of who I was and how I thought. I won't even claim to be good at writing. I'm really not. I'll only claim to be good at visualizing my own thoughts through my own words - for my own sake. I sometimes have a pulsing thought or feeling that's bursting out of me and I can't contain it. So I let it come out and I capture it through these words and hold it here forever. Here, in these words, it's mine and it can't escape.
I do it for me. I do it so that I can look back on my life and walk through it again. It's like taking pictures, but I need more than a picture. I need a depth of emotion that pictures simply don't bring to the table. Pictures can't explain to me where I was the night I was called a hypocrite and told I was incapable of loving anybody - all by a girl I thought I was in love with. Pictures can't capture my tears as I looked up and screamed at the moon. Pictures can't place me back in that night. But that night when I got back to my dorm, I wrote. I wrote because I had to. I wrote because I didn't have anywhere else to put my thoughts. And now I can go back to those words and I can be there again. I'll never be that immature kid again, but I can put myself back in his shoes and learn from it because I captured his exact thoughts and his exact emotions at that exact moment.
Here's one of the pictures we have that we haven't shared before. I've talked a lot about the absolute pricelessness of these few pictures we have of Kyla. And I mean it - they are invaluable. If I didn't have those pictures, I wouldn't remember how awkward she looked most of the time. I wouldn't remember how tightly I was holding Chelsea's hand. I truly believe that. A lot has happened in my life since then and I don't think there'd be room anymore. So those pictures help me come back to that moment and remember those particular parts of it. But pictures can't show me the bewilderment I was feeling that day in the clinic and at the hospital. Pictures didn't capture the moment I didn't support Kyla's head properly and they can't show me the horror and guilty relief I felt when I realized it didn't matter anymore if her neck snapped. Pictures can't remember the words Chelsea said that ripped straight through me: It's impossible to say goodbye. Pictures can't capture my mental follow-up to that: We'll never finish saying goodbye. Pictures can't help me talk to the daughter who never has been and never will be able to talk with me and laugh with me. Pictures can't, but writing can. Writing is me at my best. Writing is me at my worst. Writing is just me.
And that's why I was lying on the hospital couch next to Chelsea's bed, desperately trying to explain my thoughts to myself by writing them on our iPad. I had to write something even though I didn't really know what. I just started typing words. Those words became the "letter" that I wrote to Kyla and published on this blog 10 days after she died. I can read those words again and feel what January 16, 2014 Keenan felt. I can read those words again and process what January 16, 2014 Keenan was thinking. And I need to do that. I need to capture those emotions. I need to experience them again. So while hundreds of people have read our blog or at least parts of it, I read it more than anybody else. I'll sit down on a Sunday morning or a Tuesday night or whatever and take myself back to January 16, 2014. Or June 14, 2014. Or October 27, 2015. Or August 28, 2014 ... and as I type that date, I realize that I didn't remember that I posted that on our wedding anniversary. But there it is: I posted one of my most raw and heartfelt posts about Kyla on our 4th wedding anniversary. That's the power of writing and using it to remember. The list goes on, the posts pile up, and the memories of my thoughts are here for me to experience again whenever I want.
I hope you also get something out of these posts; I really do. Part of me will always want to share other parents' grief with them. Part of me will always want to just hug them and cry with them. Part of me will always want to scream at the world around us that just doesn't seem to want to understand.
But most of me does this for me. Mostly, I want these thoughts to be here for myself to read in 40 years when I'm sitting with Chelsea and reminiscing about our wonderful life together and enjoying spending time with our kids and grandkids. I need to capture these feelings so that 70 year old Keenan remembers what it was like to hold his dead baby in his arms. I need 70 year old Keenan to feel that again just as much as I need myself to feel it now. I also need 70 year old Keenan to remember the depth of the pain that 27 year old Chelsea felt, because 70 year old Chelsea will still be feeling it.
Every time I write, I say something new. Somehow, while writing, I remember something else about the silent hospital room or how I felt or what Chelsea said or how limp Kyla's body was. And as more time passes and more posts are written, I can continue to piece the whole thing together. I can look back and see the progression of my pain. Always there ... but always changing. This is how I think. This is how I process. This is why I write.
I love your writing. I love your raw honesty. I love the inclusion of all the nitty, gritty details we too often brush over for the sake of someone else. ❤ you.
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