In grief you can go from good to bad in a split second. Time is never longer than when you are grieving, because you continue to move away from the moment you want to most go back to. So it is the actual split of a second. Its so fast that it is actual whiplash. One minute of peace in the chaos and the next you are spinning.
Thats how fast the actual event is. Life is normal and then its not. There is a clear divide of whiplash, it happened then and it continues to happen in smaller bursts. But it continues to take the breath out of you with each reoccurring grief bomb. Dropping with no warning.
I spent today writing, these days its the only thing I find solace in. Emptying the words from my mind, so they don't suffocate me from the inside out. A swirling vortex of words that need to be said. With each one that goes down on paper, or typed, it puts air back into my lungs so desperately seeking it. So know that I do this not for anyone other than myself. In vain I hope it helps another soul seeking these same words in comfort. But mostly this is to document what the days were like, when I was in so much shock, I was the most rawest human experience. I will not remember it unless I spill these emotions as they come.
I spent the entire day writing in my bed, and decluttering the room I now spend the most time in. Focusing my minds first sight of the morning with a clear and comforting image, rather than the mess that was happening without a mothers touch. Then I helped the boys clean their bedroom and playroom. Slowly bringing the house into order helped clear my mind, and I continued writing.
Brandon is so overworked these days. He takes on my roll during the day and continues to his roll at night. It appears effortless but the weight is heavy as he tries to give me the space, and time, and anything he thinks might possibly make my day easier. I can see it. I can see the toll its taking. So tonight I felt the strength to give him the tiniest break. I put the kids to bed for the first time in 4 weeks. For the first time since May 20.
Up until now the kids crawled into bed with me. My effort so long that I would turn on a happy children's movie and the three of us would drift off together in a tangled mess of limbs. Sawyer has become so dependent on being near me, and physical touch. If he is not cuddling me in order to find the comfort of sleep, he is rolled to the other side almost protectively wrapped around Max's small frame. But Sawyer is sick with a cold, and I cannot compromise my body as it continues to heal both mentally and physically. Sometimes I forget how extreme a toll almost dying takes on your body. So tonight I went through our old normal routine of bedtime.
I dressed them in pjs and they ran around wild like only little boys are. I think to myself how different a girl would have been. Contrast. My voice tries to calm them and put them to bed, but it is too soft, they are used to a mom voice from these lips. I got them to crawl under the covers, and I bent to kiss Max goodnight. And just as whiplash, it hit me. Anna should be in the way. after 34 weeks, she slowly grew into a tiny human, always with me, ever growing, and ever in the way of crawling down to the bunk bed on the floor level. It was so hard to bend down those last days, the effort was huge each time, but I did it every single night. It was worth it.
The absence of it tonight was deafening. I retreated to the hallway in defense. To cry where they could not see me. They see it too much these days. Such a simple act of my daily life. It brought my to my knees. My mind broken because it cannot wrap itself around the idea of that vast absence. This is one of the first times its been such a massive blow. But it won't be the last.
Thats what the feeling of loss is, accepting to expect the unexpected emptiness.
with love, lissa