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.

Advertisements
Categories: Life | Tags: , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Post navigation

19 thoughts on “If these walls could talk

  1. Wow – lovely, sad, heart-breaking, beautifully written – all rolled into one.
    xx

  2. Patty

    You have such a way with words! I feel like I can see into your heart when you write. I challenge you to read one page today from the One Year Book of Hope. I’ll be waiting to see if you do! By the way, there is NO time schedule for moving on. Only you know when it’s right to take one step forward in that journey.

  3. You can’t just “get on with it”. There is no timetable to grief. It is such a unique, personal thing, and everyone goes through it in their own way, at their own pace.
    I’m sending giant hugs your way.

    Kirsten

  4. This post broke my heart and I can find no words of comfort to give. Please know that you are supported and will be prayed for during these days.

  5. Amy, as always you tug at my heart and make me wish I could come make even a moment of your life easier.

  6. Pingback: Tweets that mention If these walls could talk | transplanted thoughts -- Topsy.com

  7. How you can put such beautifully, coherent sentences together at such a time astounds me, and brings tears to my eyes. I don’t know you but you’re in my thoughts daily. Sending you strength . . .

  8. Oh, this just tore my heart to pieces! I’m so sorry for all the things those walls are witnessing.

    There is no such thing as “normal” when it comes to grieving the loss of a child. It shouldn’t be something anyone faces. But you are, and I think you are an amazing woman. Prayers for you and your sweet family.

  9. I pray for you every single day. It’s the only thing I know to do!

  10. Add me to the list of the prayerful.

    Beautifully, heart-breakingly told.

  11. carrie

    Beautifully written. My heart just breaks for you, and tears stream as I read. I agree with the others, grief is what it is, individual for all, and definitely on its own schedule, not ours. I pray for easier days, comfort and peace for you.

  12. My heart aches for you. Your words are beautifully spoken and I’m thinking of you.

  13. So beautiful. Makes my heart ache for you.

  14. Shelley

    Just breaks my heart. Sorrow for you, much sorrow. I just weep for what you have been through. I am praying for you and healing, so much healing. Healing that takes place on your terms and on your schedule and no one elses. You make me a better mom, you make me slow down and savor moments. Thank you for sharing your heart.
    God Bless,
    Shelley

  15. sharon

    Such a bittersweet outpouring of love within those walls Amy. I cannot imagine how you can find these words and put them together so graphically, but I’m glad you can because I’m sure you need to do this.

    xoxox

  16. You are not supposed to get on with it. It’s supposed to take a long time. It’s just so sad, in this case, that time is not a friend.

  17. MamaGayle

    First, I want to tell you how terribly sorry I am for your loss. David was such a beautiful baby. I went back and read all of your posts from the very beginning and found myself admiring your (and his) strength and courage.
    I am SO GLAD I found your blog! I was searching for blogs dealing with grief, and happened upon your blog (found your post on Band Back Together). I know that my sorrow does not even begin to compare to yours, and I can not imagine losing a child, but on 1/22/11 I lost the love of my life (my ex-husband, father of my 3 and 4 year old). The events you described on 1/23 were close to what I experienced. I do understand how heartbreaking it is to watch something like that, and feel so helpless.

    I mainly just wanted to tell you how much this post touched me. I can tell you that I have experienced nearly every thought and emotion you describe in this post. It IS a long, hard journey to normalcy (if that even exists) and no one can tell you how long it takes to grieve. I don’t think that anyone can understand the process until they are facing it themselves, and what might be enough “time” for them hasn’t even begun to be enough for you.

    (((HUGS))) to you and yours! Thank you for your honesty and for sharing your amazing journey, It has touched my life at a time I needed it most.

  18. This is so powerful, I have nothing to say. But I wanted you to know that I read it and that my heart is with you.

  19. I’ve never lost a child, but I have lost a sister. And I have watched a mother lose her child. I’ve held her up so she could hold me up. I sat up with her at night while she went through those boxes. Watched as she held up a deflated balloon she’s kept for 18 years because it still had her daughter’s breath in it. And I remember the first thought in my head as I looked down at my newborn child was, “So this is how my momma felt.” Obviously, it isn’t, but it’s the closest I can get. My loss was a sister, not a child, but I still have not crossed that last frontier on my blog. You’ve done it so beautifully. I feel I owe my sister the best of me, and I just don’t have the courage to find that right now. I know you’ve heard “I’m sorry” and “I can’t imagine how you must feel” and “Oh honey, if you ever need anything” more times than you can count, so I won’t say those things. I will just say that this was a beautiful window into your soul and broken heart, and I feel so fortunate to have had the opportunity to look through it. Thank you.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

%d bloggers like this: