A family I am very loosely connected with has had the unthinkable happen...the loss of a child, age 7. To me this is cruelest of circumstances. My own feeble mind cannot wrap itself around this devastation. My own grief at the loss of my sister seems to pale in comparison to what it would be like to lose one of my own brood.
Life was pretty darn easy for me prior to Ansley's illness and passing. Then, very suddenly, everything was turned upside down and I found myself in self-preservation mode. I might add that I failed miserably living in that mode, too. We weren't created to self-preserve.
As a result, I have lived through extreme grief and continue to exist in a milder form of it. I believe that it will be my companion, albeit a little one, for the rest of my life. The ebbs and flows of grief are like the tides. Somewhat rhythmic and predictable like the calendar, yet are not even in their size or timing. Sometimes you feel as if you have just recovered from the last wave only to be blindsided by the next one. To know that this family is at the beginning of this new way of existing, this new family dynamic and to know what suffering is before them brings me to my knees. I am not yet to the point of being able to comfort someone freshly grieving as it is still too fresh in my own heart.
And yet, there is hope. Hope that is infinite and eternal. A hope that never changes, that never fades. In the perfect storm of pain, anguish, grief, evil, God is all we have to cling to. Nothing, I mean nothing in this world is more solid, reliable, comforting, and loving than our God.
I have mentioned in a previous post my dislike for the phrase, "God only gives us what we can handle." It is not biblical scripture and though I understand the intent, it is opposite of one of my favorite verses. "I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me." My belief is that God does bring more to us than we, on our own, can handle because it is Him that gives us the strength to do it. His purpose at all times is to grow us in unbelievable places. It is to pull us and stretch our faith. It is to bring us to a point where they only solution is to turn to Him. It is at that point of complete surrender that we hear His loving words, His wooing us to Him. It is that gentle nudge that leads us to want more of Him and less of this world.
Life on this terra firma is brief, a blink of an eye in relationship to eternity, ending often without warning. Yet, even in times like these, where the worst fears of a parent are realized, I find comfort in knowing God is completely in control of it. He has a plan for each of us, a job if you will. That job is involves both our internal - our spiritual growth and our external - the impact we have on others. For some, that plan is complete in just a few short years. For others, it will continue until we are old and gray. Until that work is completed in us, we remain here as workers for Him.
For this family and their friends...life will go continue forward. It will be painful to watch the lives of others continue, appearing to be unaffected by the the loss they are experiencing. My heart wants to tell them...Don't ever discount your grief. Don't ever compare your grief to others. Don't begin to think that you are not normal in your grief cycle. God knows our sorrows, our tears, our pains, our hurts. He is big enough to carry those burdens and He is big enough to take our anger. Give it to Him. Every day.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Friday, May 08, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Rembering the End, Draft 3
Here is why you should care about breast cancer. Here is why you should never tire of hearing "just another" story about its victims. Here is why there is fear in my heart with every mammogram and MRI I have. Today holds such appointments. I will think of her, my sister and best friend, the entire time. This is the story of the her death on this earth, draft 3.
The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?
I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.
It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.
I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.
I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.
I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.
Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.
Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.
I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...
The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.
Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.
The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.
Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.
Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.
I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.
The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?
I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.
It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.
I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.
I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.
I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.
Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.
Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.
I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...
The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.
Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.
The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.
Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.
Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.
I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Signs of a Lighter Heart
A tough week last week. I didn't write much, didn't think much past my own sorrow. I am working on getting back into the groove this week. Much of the sadness is behind me which actually is very interesting. I mean, does a passing day really make that much difference? Topic for future post.
A habit I am trying to establish is to make a list of what brings me happiness and joy on a regular basis. Focusing on the positive, not the negative. Gains instead of losses. God's blessings even if small. And so...here it is:
1. "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. I recently heard this song on the radio and not only did it pump me up in a major way, it brought back a flood of wonderful memories of my year in the Netherlands with a group of girls (I call all my friend girls) that are still very close to my heart. That song was our mantra while being immersed in a different culture, far from home and families. A remix of the song was very popular in the bars that year and so we belted it out regularly. But, this time I also heard myself singing it in a new light. Instead of singing this to my independent spirit (the original intent by Ms. Gaynor), I sang this song to my grief, loneliness and depression which seemed to appear with such force I was knocked to the ground. Here is a snippet of the lyrics for those that don't remember.
and so you're back
from outer space
I just walked in to find you here
with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed my stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me
Go on now go walk out the door
just turn around now
'cause you're not welcome anymore
weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye
you think I'd crumble
you think I'd lay down and die
Oh no, not I
I will survive
as long as i know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got all my love to give
and I'll survive
I will survive
2. Loving little Dixie, our dachshund puppy. She has brought such delight to my day, despite the lack to total house training and even a bout of vomiting. I could let her sleep with me, curled up, every night. I just found her snoozing on top of a laundry basket full of dirty clothes sitting in the sunlight.
3. A scarf. I received this scarf just the other day. It is made from Ansley's clothes. The first Christmas after her death, I had a lady make Colby and Gray quilts of their mother's clothing. Anyone who knew Ansley is well aware of her eclectic and fashion-forward taste in clothing. The quilts were amazing. There was enough material left for 3 more quilts so intended to have more made for my own 3. Last week the quilts arrived along with several surprises - 2 teddy bears and 2 scarves. They are gorgeous and I think my new wardrobe will consist mainly of blues and browns in order to wear the scarf every day.
4. My little Sadie, with her two front teeth missing. I can't look at her without smiling, no matter what is coming out of her mouth. Well, almost.
5. My little Lily's acceptance of a new discipline technique, the marble jars. Thanks, Beth, for that suggestion. She is working so hard at changing her whining, crying and fit throwing. I am amazed at the changes in a mere 4 days. Chuck E. Cheese, here we come. Ok, so that is NOT on my list of happy thoughts, but it is her reward once the jar is full of marbles.
6. My little Ethan's request to snuggle, even at age 8. I went out of town for the night on Valentine's Day. Upon my return, he just wanted to sit close to me with his head on my shoulder and talk.
7. My friends. Yes, you! What an outpouring of thoughts, well-wishes and love on Friday. I felt very, very blessed and loved on a day when I was floundering in the deep. Never underestimate the impact this can have on someone.
8. Peanut Butter pie. Had a divine slice at the beach. Whipped, light, pb mousse with an oreo cookie crust, topped with chocolate morsels. Sinful.
9. The squirrel is OUTTA HERE! A week ago Jay fixed the squirrel cage to a wooden squirrel box he had fastened to a tree. We let the squirrel get acclimated to his new surroundings for a week. On Saturday, Jay removed the bottom of the cage so the squirrel would be able to roam, forage and most likely get eaten at his leisure. I know, I am terrible.
10. And, finally, but not least by any measure, my forgiveness. Over the past several months I have allowed my mind to move away from Him and onto earthly things. It has been more than a struggle. It has been soul wrenching. I brought it to Him over the weekend and well, you guys know. I am back in the fold. Still working out the details, but definitely moving back to where I need to be. God is good!
A habit I am trying to establish is to make a list of what brings me happiness and joy on a regular basis. Focusing on the positive, not the negative. Gains instead of losses. God's blessings even if small. And so...here it is:
1. "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor. I recently heard this song on the radio and not only did it pump me up in a major way, it brought back a flood of wonderful memories of my year in the Netherlands with a group of girls (I call all my friend girls) that are still very close to my heart. That song was our mantra while being immersed in a different culture, far from home and families. A remix of the song was very popular in the bars that year and so we belted it out regularly. But, this time I also heard myself singing it in a new light. Instead of singing this to my independent spirit (the original intent by Ms. Gaynor), I sang this song to my grief, loneliness and depression which seemed to appear with such force I was knocked to the ground. Here is a snippet of the lyrics for those that don't remember.
and so you're back
from outer space
I just walked in to find you here
with that sad look upon your face
I should have changed my stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key
If I had known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me
Go on now go walk out the door
just turn around now
'cause you're not welcome anymore
weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye
you think I'd crumble
you think I'd lay down and die
Oh no, not I
I will survive
as long as i know how to love
I know I will stay alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got all my love to give
and I'll survive
I will survive
2. Loving little Dixie, our dachshund puppy. She has brought such delight to my day, despite the lack to total house training and even a bout of vomiting. I could let her sleep with me, curled up, every night. I just found her snoozing on top of a laundry basket full of dirty clothes sitting in the sunlight.
3. A scarf. I received this scarf just the other day. It is made from Ansley's clothes. The first Christmas after her death, I had a lady make Colby and Gray quilts of their mother's clothing. Anyone who knew Ansley is well aware of her eclectic and fashion-forward taste in clothing. The quilts were amazing. There was enough material left for 3 more quilts so intended to have more made for my own 3. Last week the quilts arrived along with several surprises - 2 teddy bears and 2 scarves. They are gorgeous and I think my new wardrobe will consist mainly of blues and browns in order to wear the scarf every day.
4. My little Sadie, with her two front teeth missing. I can't look at her without smiling, no matter what is coming out of her mouth. Well, almost.
5. My little Lily's acceptance of a new discipline technique, the marble jars. Thanks, Beth, for that suggestion. She is working so hard at changing her whining, crying and fit throwing. I am amazed at the changes in a mere 4 days. Chuck E. Cheese, here we come. Ok, so that is NOT on my list of happy thoughts, but it is her reward once the jar is full of marbles.
6. My little Ethan's request to snuggle, even at age 8. I went out of town for the night on Valentine's Day. Upon my return, he just wanted to sit close to me with his head on my shoulder and talk.
7. My friends. Yes, you! What an outpouring of thoughts, well-wishes and love on Friday. I felt very, very blessed and loved on a day when I was floundering in the deep. Never underestimate the impact this can have on someone.
8. Peanut Butter pie. Had a divine slice at the beach. Whipped, light, pb mousse with an oreo cookie crust, topped with chocolate morsels. Sinful.
9. The squirrel is OUTTA HERE! A week ago Jay fixed the squirrel cage to a wooden squirrel box he had fastened to a tree. We let the squirrel get acclimated to his new surroundings for a week. On Saturday, Jay removed the bottom of the cage so the squirrel would be able to roam, forage and most likely get eaten at his leisure. I know, I am terrible.
10. And, finally, but not least by any measure, my forgiveness. Over the past several months I have allowed my mind to move away from Him and onto earthly things. It has been more than a struggle. It has been soul wrenching. I brought it to Him over the weekend and well, you guys know. I am back in the fold. Still working out the details, but definitely moving back to where I need to be. God is good!
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thoughts in grief
Today is ok.
I am going to be ok.
This is not as bad as I thought.
I will keep myself busy.
I hope so-and-so doesn't call.
I hope so-and-so does call.
Only one winner.
Why didn't he say anything?
Who has forgotten her?
What was her smell?
Is she really gone?
Why can't I get anything done.
Why did I make an impossible task?
Why do I cry upon exhaling?
Why is there no laughter?
I want to laugh.
I don't want looks.
I don't want pity.
I want her.
Today is ok.
I am going to be ok.
Maybe.
I am going to be ok.
This is not as bad as I thought.
I will keep myself busy.
I hope so-and-so doesn't call.
I hope so-and-so does call.
Only one winner.
Why didn't he say anything?
Who has forgotten her?
What was her smell?
Is she really gone?
Why can't I get anything done.
Why did I make an impossible task?
Why do I cry upon exhaling?
Why is there no laughter?
I want to laugh.
I don't want looks.
I don't want pity.
I want her.
Today is ok.
I am going to be ok.
Maybe.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I don't have much to say. At least not here. My writing has taken a definite leap into deeper and some what darker places. One day maybe these private entries will find their way into some sort of novel or article, who knows?
I am gearing up for Friday. Two years she will have been gone. Much more emotional this year. I am not very stable and well, for someone who LOVES control, this is somewhat of a death statement.
I spent this weekend with some ladies from our church at a retreat. It was very relaxing, full of wonderful teaching and as predicted...emotional. I had quite a bit of mental distraction going on so I am not sure that I fully inhaled what was presented. Maybe just a whiff here and there. But, in the midst of it all, I asked my friend, Beth, who I met when we were both pregnant with our second children, nearly 8 years ago if I would be considered a "crier," you know, emotional. Her emphatic answer, "NO! But, you should be."
I concluded that because it seems I cannot walk around these days without a tissue, I am in fact, going through "something." This is not the first something, but a cycle that seems to have started when she was still alive and has become more frequent since her passing.
Another conclusion I have drawn is that I am beyond being able to get this under control using only my abilities. Challenging my independent self to the core. This is extraordinarily painful to admit. I hate myself for all the times I looked at someone "emotional" and thought why can't they just pull it together? Just, "suck it up." Wow. Get a load of that mercy. Think there is an award out there for the most merciless person on the planet. Some things are truly out of one person's control.
Plans are in place to help me, aid and assist me in this journey and for once, I welcome them with arms wide open.
I am gearing up for Friday. Two years she will have been gone. Much more emotional this year. I am not very stable and well, for someone who LOVES control, this is somewhat of a death statement.
I spent this weekend with some ladies from our church at a retreat. It was very relaxing, full of wonderful teaching and as predicted...emotional. I had quite a bit of mental distraction going on so I am not sure that I fully inhaled what was presented. Maybe just a whiff here and there. But, in the midst of it all, I asked my friend, Beth, who I met when we were both pregnant with our second children, nearly 8 years ago if I would be considered a "crier," you know, emotional. Her emphatic answer, "NO! But, you should be."
I concluded that because it seems I cannot walk around these days without a tissue, I am in fact, going through "something." This is not the first something, but a cycle that seems to have started when she was still alive and has become more frequent since her passing.
Another conclusion I have drawn is that I am beyond being able to get this under control using only my abilities. Challenging my independent self to the core. This is extraordinarily painful to admit. I hate myself for all the times I looked at someone "emotional" and thought why can't they just pull it together? Just, "suck it up." Wow. Get a load of that mercy. Think there is an award out there for the most merciless person on the planet. Some things are truly out of one person's control.
Plans are in place to help me, aid and assist me in this journey and for once, I welcome them with arms wide open.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Missing
There just seemed to be something missing today. In fact, it has been building steadily for a while now. A void, depression, near despair. And, then, it hit me, like it always does. Out of nowhere and painful. She is missing. A piece of me. Gone.
I needed her today. And, she is not here. I cannot hear her or touch her. I am angry about it. More than that. I am full of vile and fury. Life is not what is was supposed to be I want her back. I want her love. I want her humor and her understanding. I want her hands that comforted me. I want her laughter. I want that person that knows me better than anyone else to be here for me. I want my support, my cheerleader. I want my sister.
The tears on my face are hot and stinging. I haven't sobbed and wailed for her with such intensity in a while. Sure, little tears, but not the soul rattling level of this evening. And, I don't think I am finished. The anger has been bubbling on the surface for a while now and I was afraid to unleash it. And, now here it is. Out. Out in all of its rawness and ugliness and darkness. Exposed to the world.
The bitter winds of winter remind me of the time of her death - February. The day just around the corner. After nearly 2 years, I thought I had escaped the inevitable anger stage of grief. Perhaps, I wouldn't have to deal with that. I was hopeful. But here I am, collapsing on the floor like the day she died, unable to figure out how to navigate this world without her.
For two years, I have kept vigil. Searching for what, who, anything to fill her spot. Not a replacement, but just something to soften and lessen the hole. My search has been futile. There is nothing. Nothing but more time.
I needed her today. And, she is not here. I cannot hear her or touch her. I am angry about it. More than that. I am full of vile and fury. Life is not what is was supposed to be I want her back. I want her love. I want her humor and her understanding. I want her hands that comforted me. I want her laughter. I want that person that knows me better than anyone else to be here for me. I want my support, my cheerleader. I want my sister.
The tears on my face are hot and stinging. I haven't sobbed and wailed for her with such intensity in a while. Sure, little tears, but not the soul rattling level of this evening. And, I don't think I am finished. The anger has been bubbling on the surface for a while now and I was afraid to unleash it. And, now here it is. Out. Out in all of its rawness and ugliness and darkness. Exposed to the world.
The bitter winds of winter remind me of the time of her death - February. The day just around the corner. After nearly 2 years, I thought I had escaped the inevitable anger stage of grief. Perhaps, I wouldn't have to deal with that. I was hopeful. But here I am, collapsing on the floor like the day she died, unable to figure out how to navigate this world without her.
For two years, I have kept vigil. Searching for what, who, anything to fill her spot. Not a replacement, but just something to soften and lessen the hole. My search has been futile. There is nothing. Nothing but more time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
