Some days are So. Damn. Hard.
There I said it. My husband’s right – I can sit for hours at the kitchen table, laptop on or not, just staring at the screen or out the window. You’d think I was daydreaming.
If daydreams included images of chest compressions and blood and babies in caskets, then you’d be right.
If daydreams included physical pain in the pit of your stomach, an unending longing and devastating emptiness, then you’d be right.
I know I’m on auto-pilot, but that’s part of being ‘strong’ and taking it day to day, isn’t it? To be able to function, albeit minimally. I mean, the minions haven’t missed a meal, they’ve made it to school dressed in clean clothes, I took at least 1 shower this week, hell, that’s sounds like a typical week for a stay home mom.
It’s just the time in between. I do things in short bursts. Washing the dishes will take 20 minutes. Staring out the window may take 90. Sweeping the kitchen floor may take 5, while the anxiety builds for the 3 hours Zachary is away at Preschool. Standing in the pick-up line with a dozen other parents and younger siblings is the stuff panic attacks are made of.
I realized that it’s been 2 weeks. 14 days since the universe created a rift in my heart. I keep thinking that each day will get a little bit easier, but they don’t seem to. Some days just seem harder.
I ventured onto Twitter Saturday night and came across a conversation that just crushed me. Another blogger had posted about her daughter being 3 years cancer free. A privileged member of the Survivor Club. One of her readers congratulated her for ‘praying her daughter back to health’. Really? That’s all if took? A few words whispered on the wind and Voila! your child gets to live?
Said blogger actually deleted the comment and went on to tell this reader that it wasn’t all about prayer and what of the all the lost children? Didn’t their parents not pray enough for God to chose to save them? Reader responded by saying she should be ‘proud’ that God listened to her and healed her child.
Proud? Not that the doctors had anything to do with it, not that years of treatment had anything to do with it – but just the mere fact that she prayed well enough so God affected a shift in her favor.
Dear reader – should I blame you that David died? Because clearly you did not pray well enough for us, at least according to this commenter. The thousands of you that offered up prayers and told friends of friends and called prayer chains and had entire churches praying for us – clearly none of us have it In with the Man Upstairs.
I’m sorry, but just the thought that some how I was just not good enough to convince God to let David live, terminates any desire to want to believe in said Omnipotent Being. And it brings me to my knees, paralyzed with doubt.
Thoughts like that start to creep into your mind anyway. I’m a rational person, but grief does funny things to your thinking process. I believe we did everything, EVERYTHING that could be done, but what if, what if I hadn’t gone to take a shower that Saturday morning? Should I have stayed to help turn him and change his diaper? If I had stayed, maybe I could have prevented the aspiration. If he hadn’t aspirated the blood, would he still be here?
So many doubts cloud your mind. It becomes difficult to embrace that some how you weren’t responsible for the outcome, that one of your decisions wasn’t the fatal decision. I know, I know, I KNOW that’s not the case, but those awful little whispers of doubt wiggle their way into your conscious and before you know it they firmly take root.
Your rational mind is overtaken by the irrational and pretty soon all I see is failure. Failure in my responsibility as a mother to protect her child. Failure in my ability as a mother. Period.
So while this comment wasn’t even directed at me, it didn’t have to be. Some hack doesn’t have to tell me that God punishes those that aren’t faithful enough. That maybe I didn’t do enough for David.
My irrational mind is doing a bang-up job at telling me that I failed.
And that, my friends, can be worse than any hack.