If we’re friends in real life maybe you saw the baking I’ve done this week in my Facebook story. If you did, it’s possible that you’d assume things are great and that I’m busy doing allofthethings to the very best of my ability and maybe you’d feel like you should be doing more and I do not want you to feel that way.
Truth of it is I’ve started my days shocked awake before 3 AM, certain that the phone call is coming. The call that will rush my body to my mother’s side as we watch him struggle for days and then struggle to let him go.
Truth of it is I’ve started my days with tears all this week and they have come in all of the quiet moments that I’ve allowed, the minutes that I’ve not filled up. They rush at me in this silent way and so I drown the silence with tasks.
Truth of it is the anxiety has been so intense that my heartbeat very nearly shatters my chest. My hands shake if I let them be still. My mind is constantly reassuring itself that this particular worst has already happened, though it never can be quite sure, and continues the pattern of reliving moment by moment the days leading up.
So, if you saw in my story all of the baking, please know that it is a symptom of the pain and loss and intense anxiety I’m fighting over here. I can not be still or I certainly will collapse again to the kitchen floor, rush out the door and not stop driving until the gas or the money runs out, cry out at the top of my lungs to the frozen night.
This grief drives me.
There is more; I made it to the shower only once this week. I wore my pajamas all but one day, I have had to force myself outside to care for animals. I have barely been able to put my device down. I have worked more than I should. The anxiety I tie up in these days is familiar and I can fight it only so much. I mostly try to use it now. Not let it control my every moment, but put the fear to work. Though, I doubt this battle will ever be won.
Of course I’ll allow time for appropriate processing. Don’t worry. I’ll be at the cemetery this weekend. I’ll sit with my mother and we’ll cry and maybe laugh, and we’ll miss him as only a very few people can. It will be hard, and good and necessary.
But next week will be more like this one. Endlessly doing; this will get me through another winter, another season of remembering the boy he was all those years ago…and how we lost him. I know the Spring will come, it has unfailingly done so year after year. I always wonder if this time it won’t be so terrible, if my heart won’t break into pieces again, if my mind will understand that this loss is in the past. And every year I am broken open again as if I am sitting in the hospital holding his hand for what seemed like so many days and such long, long nights.
Allow the grief dear friends, allow every wracking sob to come, allow it to wash over you. For a time. These days in early March, near the end of winter, this is my time. Unfailingly year upon year, I allow it to overtake me while I wait, knowing the truth, yet not being able to convince myself of it either; Spring will come again. I will make it througb.