Another day, another struggle

Yesterday was a struggle. Not the normal struggle of just getting up and getting through the day. No, yesterday I had to go school with Jacob. Sit in the cafeteria, eat lunch with him and a hundred plus 2nd graders.

Being the Indian of the week is an honor each child gets. They get to invite one person to eat lunch with them. Jonathan had chosen his daddy. Jacob, me.

I made it through without incident, no tears, no breakdowns. Luckily no one said much of anything to me. I slipped in, ate my sandwich, slipped out.

Grief is such an odd thing, sometimes the strangest ideas stick with you. Yes, I’m glad I was able to slide through the half hour virtually unnoticed, but then a small part of me feels like that petulant child, stomping her foot and saying – hey, someone acknowledge me please.

Like a second personality, grief plants ideas in my head that are not my own.

Then I had to pick Zachary up from Preschool. Listening to the Grandmothers chat about how they have no patience to handle their grandchildren, left me with a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted to shout at them - be thankful you have those grandchildren to drive you crazy.

Instead I found myself standing there with tears in my eyes, wondering how I was ever going to make it through this near-daily crazy.

*sigh*

My morning adventures left me drained, so after Zachary ate his lunch, he and I took  a much deserved nap. I woke up just in time for the boys to get home from school and to get dinner going.

I hate how I don’t feel in control of anything. Of my thoughts, of my actions. I hate how grief has become my constant companion and I’m at the mercy of  my tears.

I hate the isolation and emptiness that my mind imposes on me. I hate the waiting. Waiting for “it” to get better. As if “it” was just a tiny paper-cut that that needed to knit itself back together, instead of a gaping wound that hasn’t even begun to scab over.

I hate it because I fear it. I fear life may never get better. I fear I will always feel this desperation to exist. As if simply existing was ever the goal in life.

I hate how a freak turn of events shifted my entire world and I am helpless to shift it back.

I hate grief and everything it manifests.

Just a Bad Day

Some days are worse than others. Today is one of those days. I don’t know why, really. Maybe because it’s Monday, maybe because it’s been exactly 6 weeks since David slipped away from me. Maybe I’m just tired. Whatever the reason.

Today is a bad day.

I’m irritable and weepy. I don’t want to do anything but crawl back into bed. Which is exactly what Zachary and I are going to do as soon I get him home from Preschool.

I start thinking about the long list of to-do’s in my head and instead of getting down to business and accomplishing a task, no matter how small, I just shut-down and do nothing.

I hate that feel of nothingness. I hate how it grabs hold of you and won’t let go.

Thank goodness I had the foresight to throw meat in the crock pot. At least, I can accomplish supper for tonite. Because these feelings of hopelessness, feelings of can’t do anything constructive, would be okay if it was just about me – but it’s not. I can’t let myself wallow in the gloom. Which is exactly what I feel like doing.

*sigh*

Here’s hoping tomorrow is a better day.

Child Dancing, Heart’s Delight

Since we just got back from our, well, I'd say weekend, but it really
was just a day & 1/2, away. I'm going to leave you with a poem that Jennie, over
at A Lady In France sent to me shortly after David passed away. Enjoy.
I'll be back tomorrow.

                Child dancing, heart's delight
		Petals floating, happy light.
		Angels waiting, face benign,
		“This small child is one of mine.”

		Fragrant blossoms, fresh with dew,
		Princely garland over you.
		Tinkling music, a fairy's laugh
		Leads the frolic down the path.

		Mighty fortress sound, secure,
		to shelter children coming here.
		Wooden doors lead to the hall;
		I know this one! I know them all!

		Happy voices, “Come and eat!”
		For you, there's always been a seat.
		A room, a hearth, a forever be
		With forever views on acorn trees.

		Calmly playing, heart content,
		waiting til my family's sent.
		Bright eyes twinkling, King divine!
		“This small child is one of mine.”

Unexpected

It’s the unexpected that tears your heart apart.

You try to bury that piece of yourself that is both sentimental and emotional, hide it under the refuse of menial tasks and daily tedium. It’s the unexpected things that lay you bare and exposed as the barely-functioning shell of a woman you’re trying so desperately to hide.

The little boy with the mop of black hair and bright blue eyes, barely more than a year old, that looks up at you while you wait in the Preschool pickup line. The mom that chatters incessantly to you about the boy. Waiting for your agreement that his baby words and diapered waddle are the stuff ambrosia is made of.

The ghost of a babe that never learned to sit, let alone stand and toddle.

The whisper of a toothy grin that never uttered the word mama.

The tears poured down my face before I could reign in the deluge. I turned away from the chatty mom and her cherub boy. I’m sure she thinks me anti-social, as I couldn’t find the grace of words to explain.

*sigh*

And as if the little boy wasn’t enough to test my mental fortitude, the mail held the grand-daddy of all unexpected surprises.

David’s death certificate.

Innocuous in an envelope from the funeral home, my Hub thought it was a bill. When he realized what it was, he tossed it at me, like a game of hot potato that no one can win. The folded paper taken from the envelope but not uncreased for viewing.

I laid it back inside the envelope, unable to read the words.

Several hours past, I waited until my heart was still and I reached inside the envelope, gingerly holding the folded page. While I heard the boys’ muffled voices coming from the living room, I felt like I was in a vacuum, this piece of paper sucking all the oxygen from my lungs.

The details become unimportant as my eyes sweep over the page, although I am grateful that I recognized the doctor’s signature as one with whom we had a rapport.

I break when I read the words refractory septic shock. Those words fill the room and squeeze out the light. They are palpable against my skin as I try to return the page to it’s white paper crypt.

It’s the unexpected that destroys you, completely.

If these walls could talk

They would tell you about  a woman that is struggling to exist. As if just existing is the ultimate goal and not just a passing phase.  The walls would tell you that this woman is valiantly struggling with herself to put forth the effort needed to get up each day and make it through till nightfall, when she might find some respite from the nightmares that haunt her waking hours.

Even though the respite she so desperately needs doesn’t always find her. These walls would tell you about a woman whose lack of sleep makes her think time is a constraint in which she’ll never have the upper hand.

If these walls could talk, they might tell you they were relieved to see this woman re-appear 4 weeks ago after so much time away. They were beginning to wonder if she would ever make it back home, although they were shocked and dismayed to see her come back a shell of her former self and empty-handed, to boot.

Of course, 4 weeks doesn’t seem that long and yet, the walls, they would tell you otherwise. Even though they see what everyone else sees, a woman who looks held together, a woman who cooks and cares for the ones left behind.

These walls, they know differently.

They know that these past 4 weeks seem like an eternity to this woman. An eternity’s worth of tears have certainly poured forth from this woman. Each and every night when no one else is around to see her break, her tears make even these old walls reel with despair.

These walls, they know that it’s felt like more than an eternity since this woman has held her infant son in her arms. Several eternities, in fact, since she has felt the unruly weight of the pudgy babe pressed against her flesh.

It’s such a simple task, isn’t it? Holding a baby. People around the world undertake this chore every hour of every day.  The walls know that this woman is ashamed to think she took for granted the joy and wonder of holding her son. That it sometimes felt tiresome and inconvenient, to juggle the babe while caring for the others. The walls, they know that this woman judges herself harshly for her  perceived failures.

If these walls could talk, they would tell you about a woman that sometimes loses her cool with the ones left behind. That there are days when she feels irritable and argumentative, more often than not, without provocation. That she yells at the ones left behind because they demand so much of her and yet she feels so small and unworthy when they wrap their arms around her neck and squeeze with every fiber of their being.

Whispering “I Love You, Mommy.” into her neck as tears stream down her face.

If these walls could talk, they would tell you that tears are more common than sneezes and sometimes it’s the smallest things that set off the biggest crying jags. That finding the faded ultrasound photo with it’s grainy image of a foot, made the woman want to rip it to shreds as if to say it never happened, that foot never existed.

Of course, the walls know she hasn’t crossed that line of crazy yet, and they watched solemnly as she folded the paper and tucked it into the box of keepsakes. A box that should feel lucky, nestled amongst the ever dwindling number of boxes.

You know these walls, they would gossip like a school-girl about this woman and her new-found obsession with throwing things away, if only they could utter the first word. These walls have been home to this woman for almost 7 years and they’ve witnessed many things, but this, this purging is a new phenomenon.

This behavior worries the walls.

Here is this woman, discarding items that once held reverence in her heart. Items she once felt she couldn’t do without are now finding their way to the trash. Maybe the walls feel threatened by her new-found animosity towards material things. Maybe the walls are saddened that the things they’ve been gazing at for 7 years are disappearing, as if material things could mean anything to these old walls.

If these walls could talk, they would tell you the secrets this woman confides in them, the tales of long nights spent distanced from these very walls. Of people and procedures, in such minute detail, it’s as if she’s living it for the first time, not the umpteenth. Not all these stories are sad and sometimes the walls see a small smile from the woman as she remembers something she thought long-forgotten.

*sigh*

But these walls can’t talk and for that the woman is grateful. Sometimes she feels like she’s on a strict time-schedule to ‘get on with it’.  That she’s required to tuck it all away and ignore the never-ending pain and sorrow. The walls know that she is not ready for this, that the memories are her last link to the babe. The pain and sorrow made tangible by her grief-ladened love.

No, the woman is glad these old walls can’t talk. They are her confidantes, old friends she can pour her soul into without judgement or repercussions. Moreover, they are her salvation from the madness of grief and sorrow.

No, the woman is most certainly glad that these old walls can’t talk.

This post was written using a prompt from Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writing Prompts She offers weekly prompts and a prompt generator on her blog. I chose “If these walls could talk” from the prompt generator.