Chicago Fire, "It's Our Time Now"

The Dark Days

When I was younger, my parents used to tell me that being sad is a sign of weakness. I was brought up on the assumption that allowing yourself to express your pain is a one way ticket to failure.
To this day I can still hear my mom's voice in the back of my head whenever I'm sad saying "Gabby, get up and stop your tears. When you cry, that means your weak. And the weak never succeed." She drilled that way of thinking into my mind for so long, that sometimes I don't allow myself to feel the full extent of things anymore. And in the process I close a part of myself off and shut down because I don't want to allow myself to feel. Because if I do, I'll cry. And I'll be weak. And I'm not weak. I can't be weak.

As I laid there in my dark bedroom curled in a mountain of blankets for the 3rd day in a row, shay was the only thing on my mind. That day, was the only thing I could think of. The look on her face right before it happened is all I can see and its replaying on a loop. Like a broken record that never stops spinning. In that moment, the moment before the beam came down, we were laughing and joking around— per usual. I had just asked her to switch places with me so she could take the lead. And she was trying to convince me that we needed a night in the city. Everything was normal, everything was okay, and in a split second everything wasnt. She was right where I was, where I should have been when the beam came down.
And as I laid there in that mountain of blankets, in a pile of sadness, I felt weak and broken. But more so, I felt guilty. I blamed myself. Because it was my fault she was gone. And I know with every part of my being that if I didn't make the choice I did, she would still be alive. And I have to live with the guilt of that for the rest of my life.

Matt tried his best to give me the love I needed in the weeks I took off. He gave me space but also reminded me that he was always there. I appreciated that. But I still pushed him away. I didn't exactly know how to accept worry and validation— given my history. I felt bad, but I think he understood. Because if I let him hold me, I'd cry. I'd actually have to feel it all. And I couldn't bare the weight of that yet. I wasn't ready.
So with no timeline on when I'd be peeling myself out of bed and returning to work, he was patient with me. He gave me the time I needed to heal no questions asked. And still loved me so intensely.
The rest of 51 reached out too. They made us dinners, sent messages, and made sure that I knew I had all of them to lean on. I was thankful, but none of it seemed to be enough to drag me out. Because the only person I wanted to hear from was Shay. The only person who could heal how I was feeling was my best friend. And I'd never be able to talk to her again. I think that's the hardest part about losing someone you love. You'll never be able to hear their voice again. Their laugh. You'll never be able to see their face. You'll never be able to talk to them. And it's so hard coming to grips with that. There's no way to explain the intense feeling of loss that comes with that. The enormous pit in your stomach that makes you feel sick that they're actually gone. They were there one moment, and you think that'll last forever. But then one day something crazy happens and they're dead. They're never coming back. And then all you seem to long for are the little things like the sound of their voice. And the only thing that could ever make you feel better is if they were right there by your side again.
There were days when I never thought I'd get up out of that bed. Because if Shay wasn't there, I didn't want to be either. But then one random day, that changed. As I stood in the shower I felt a flutter in my stomach. At first I ignored it. It was barely noticeable and I figured it was a muscle twitch. But then I felt it again. And again. And then I thought about it. My period was late, my work pants were snug. I felt sick here and there. But the test I took was negative, I couldn't be. But I still hopped out of the shower, and hurried to the store to buy a box of tests. I quickly returned home and took 3. All of which read positive.

3 weeks closed off from the world stuck inside my head. Going through some of the darkest days I've ever faced. Thinking that the only way I could ever possibly be happy again is if somehow Shay could come back. But after I saw the lines on that little screen, that all changed. I knew everything was gonna be okay. I couldn't help but think this baby was a sign. I would get through all of this. Everything was gonna be just fine.