Tuesday
Yesterday I began adding the day to my post - just a self-check. I forget what day it is.
Not much sleep last night - foggier fog than usual this morning.
.
9:40 - Michael and I are out the door for back to back appointments at the lab for blood work - mine at 10:00; his at 10:15. We're finished by 10:45. (They do not have "Princess" band-aids. Bummer.)
The day looks quiet and manageable. I'm grateful. My head feels full - heavy.
Our business is home-based (e-commerce), and requires a lot from Michael. Once he starts, he won't stop for lunch. He's taken such good care of me - always making time to check in with me frequently - no matter how busy he is - holds me when I cry - puts up with the innumerous mood changes without complaint.
"Let's stop at George's for breakfast on the way home", I suggest. George's is a little restaurant about a mile from us - a great place for breakfast. This is my small effort to take care of Michael.
Michael thought it was a great idea. We had a terrific breakfast before we re-started our day.
Back home by noon - a couple of bracelets to make and then off to see Woowoo.
A Friend (with a capital F) called to see if he and his wife could stop by this afternoon. My quiet day was getting busier by the hour, but I agreed and decided to think about one thing at a time - not too far ahead.
My time with Woowoo was exhausting today. Can't talk about it. Trying to get through the day in one piece.
Richard texts me to tell me that Brynn has a basketball game at 7:00. "Thanks. I'll see you there.", I tell him. It's something I need to do - for them - for me. I think.
He also asks if I'd like to have Kate (10-years-old) for the day tomorrow. I sign up for a 9:00am child delivery. I'm tired and was planning a day of Nothing tomorrow, but the chance to see Kate is a gift from my son. The sound of her name brightens my day. She is Hope in the darkness.
I arrive home from Woowoo's office in time for the visit from my friend and his wife. These visits are awful and wonderful. It's humbling to know that people truly do care. That's always shocking to me. It takes courage to visit someone who's lost their son - to look them in the eye - to be willing to experience their grief - to hear their pain and witness their tears. If I was ever that brave, I can never be again. I couldn't watch someone feel this pain.
I don't really want to share my grief today. I have too much. I don't know that I can control it - keep it inside. The day is too full - no spaces - no "outs". But I'm grateful for my friend - grateful that he's here - and so I go through it - again. I'll pick up the pieces of me later. I hope.
When my friend and his wife leave, Michael and I leave, too, for Brynn's basketball game.
The lights are bright and the gym is large and open. The walls have been leaning in on me all day. I'm grateful for this openness. I can breathe. I greet each grandchild one at a time - hug them, tell them I love them - tell them how precious they are to me. Somehow I hold it together and I don't cry. It's coming though. I can feel it.
Brynn's team loses and she is inconsolable. Her father says that Brynn does everything with her whole heart - and she does. Her tears give me a chance to hold her tight, stroke her hair, wipe her tears - remind her how much she's loved. Hugs to everyone else on the way out. I remember to tell each one again that I love them.
Home - safe behind the bedroom door - the tears flow and it's a relief to cry. It hurts more to keep the tears inside than to free them. Letting them go feels right. Sometimes, the weight of Normal bends me to the ground. I'm amazed that at least for tonight, in God's mercy, I don't break.
Yesterday I began adding the day to my post - just a self-check. I forget what day it is.
Not much sleep last night - foggier fog than usual this morning.
.
9:40 - Michael and I are out the door for back to back appointments at the lab for blood work - mine at 10:00; his at 10:15. We're finished by 10:45. (They do not have "Princess" band-aids. Bummer.)
The day looks quiet and manageable. I'm grateful. My head feels full - heavy.
Our business is home-based (e-commerce), and requires a lot from Michael. Once he starts, he won't stop for lunch. He's taken such good care of me - always making time to check in with me frequently - no matter how busy he is - holds me when I cry - puts up with the innumerous mood changes without complaint.
"Let's stop at George's for breakfast on the way home", I suggest. George's is a little restaurant about a mile from us - a great place for breakfast. This is my small effort to take care of Michael.
Michael thought it was a great idea. We had a terrific breakfast before we re-started our day.
Back home by noon - a couple of bracelets to make and then off to see Woowoo.
A Friend (with a capital F) called to see if he and his wife could stop by this afternoon. My quiet day was getting busier by the hour, but I agreed and decided to think about one thing at a time - not too far ahead.
My time with Woowoo was exhausting today. Can't talk about it. Trying to get through the day in one piece.
Richard texts me to tell me that Brynn has a basketball game at 7:00. "Thanks. I'll see you there.", I tell him. It's something I need to do - for them - for me. I think.
He also asks if I'd like to have Kate (10-years-old) for the day tomorrow. I sign up for a 9:00am child delivery. I'm tired and was planning a day of Nothing tomorrow, but the chance to see Kate is a gift from my son. The sound of her name brightens my day. She is Hope in the darkness.
I arrive home from Woowoo's office in time for the visit from my friend and his wife. These visits are awful and wonderful. It's humbling to know that people truly do care. That's always shocking to me. It takes courage to visit someone who's lost their son - to look them in the eye - to be willing to experience their grief - to hear their pain and witness their tears. If I was ever that brave, I can never be again. I couldn't watch someone feel this pain.
I don't really want to share my grief today. I have too much. I don't know that I can control it - keep it inside. The day is too full - no spaces - no "outs". But I'm grateful for my friend - grateful that he's here - and so I go through it - again. I'll pick up the pieces of me later. I hope.
When my friend and his wife leave, Michael and I leave, too, for Brynn's basketball game.
The lights are bright and the gym is large and open. The walls have been leaning in on me all day. I'm grateful for this openness. I can breathe. I greet each grandchild one at a time - hug them, tell them I love them - tell them how precious they are to me. Somehow I hold it together and I don't cry. It's coming though. I can feel it.
Brynn's team loses and she is inconsolable. Her father says that Brynn does everything with her whole heart - and she does. Her tears give me a chance to hold her tight, stroke her hair, wipe her tears - remind her how much she's loved. Hugs to everyone else on the way out. I remember to tell each one again that I love them.
Home - safe behind the bedroom door - the tears flow and it's a relief to cry. It hurts more to keep the tears inside than to free them. Letting them go feels right. Sometimes, the weight of Normal bends me to the ground. I'm amazed that at least for tonight, in God's mercy, I don't break.
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