I'm so tired. I'm so pregnant. I'm so hormonal.
The vacation high is wearing off.
Today I don't feel like facing my life. Physically, mentally...I'm too weary. No more fighting. No more being strong and putting on a brave face. Not today.
I received a book in the mail last night from a lovely gal who reads my blog. (Thank you, thank you, thank you. ALL OF YOU.) It is called "Comfort" A Journey Through Grief by Ann Hood (who also wrote The Knitting Circle). I cracked it open last night and am already half way through. Her writing is so compelling and raw...her experience so much like my own. And while I am completely enthralled in the book and can't seem to put it down, at the same time, it is ripping my heart open afresh. Today is an angry day. A day I feel sorry for myself and don't want to crawl out of my bed. Let me read these beautiful words and re-live my loss and ask as many questions as I want. Don't ask me to do anything. Anything at all. Please life, just give me rest. Give me comfort.
I can't look at your blog my sweet Cassie, or Heather, or Andrew, or Heidi, or Anna, or Brooke, or Kim, or you or you or you...and you.... anyone who hasn't lost a child. Because today it makes me angry. So angry that you have all of your children and get to live in that safe place with moments of pure, uninhibited bliss... Not knowing this all consuming monster of grief. I love you. Oh, how I love you, but I can't do it today. Today I can understand how Jenny felt when Jack was attacked by the neighbor dog--the horror, the fear...my child is in pain and danger! PLEASE SOMEONE SAVE THEM. I understand all too well, but I don't sympathize. Because you, sweet Jenny, got to keep your precious Jack. We all get to keep him here and we love him. But I wasn't so lucky. I don't want my loss to diminish my sympathy for others. But I haven't learned yet how to sympathize with almost. Only with gone. Finished. Goodbye.
Today I can't read the blogs about the love shared on Valentine's Day. Not because I wasn't showered with love and protection and gifts from my dear husband. But because ours was a day of holding on with our fingernails. Almost gripping each other in order to stay alive. Not a care-free joyous occasion. There is an empty chair at every occasion. Somehow I've lost a limb but appear complete on the exterior.
Grief is not linear. People kept telling me that once this happened or that passed, everything would be better. Some people gave me one year to grieve. They saw grief as a straight line, with a beginning, middle, and end. But it is not linear. It is disjointed. One day you are acting almost like a normal person. You may even manage to take a shower. Your clothes match. You think the autumn leaves look pretty, or enjoy the sound of snow crunching under your feet.
Then a song, a glimpse of something, or maybe even nothing sends you back into the hole of grief. It is not one step forward, two steps back. It is a jumble. It is hours that are all right, and weeks that aren't. Or it is good days and bad days. Or it is the weight of sadness making you look different to others and nothing helps. Not haircuts or manicures or the Atkins Diet.
...Grief doesn't have a plot. It isn't smooth. There is no beginning and middle and end.
No end. No end. No end.
I dreamed of her last night. She told me in the clearest, purest voice of a young woman, her arms wrapped around my neck, "I love you." Astonished and desperate I looked her in the eyes while pushing her in the grocery cart.."YOU DO?"
"Yes, I love you very much."
Oh, Lucy! You must have known how much I needed that reassurance. Please help me make it through my day at work and soften my heart. Even those who haven't lost a child still have heartache. Help me sympathize and not just cognitively understand.
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