I have been on my own, emotionally, since I was very young - maybe seven or eight years old. I've lived most of my life with my head down and my fists up (and a smile on my face).
I've been fiercely independent - determined (read: bullheaded). I take care of myself - and everyone within my reach. No one takes care of me. I never expected anyone to take care of me. It didn't occur to me that anyone would.
Don't get me wrong. I had a great husband , steady and responsible. I never had to worry about a roof over my head. Physically, I've always been safe. Emotionally, I've always felt alone.
And now this. My son is dead and self-care is beyond me. My heart is crushed - my emotions are raw - my ability to take care of myself is non-existent. Most days I don't feel that I'll live very long.
I remind myself that I have two other sons, eight grandchildren. Its not enough. Head knowledge in itself is not strong enough to pull me out of this well of sadness.
The night Greg died, I spent all night alone in the den with the door closed - screaming - sobbing - rocking back and forth - feeling myself ripped to shreds by sadness. I didn't think I'd live through the night. I didn't want to live through the night. When the morning came, I was sickened that I was still alive. I didn't know how I'd get through the next day, let alone weeks and months. It was - without question, the worst day and night of my life.
When Michael realized what I had gone through that night, he felt awful and promised me that I'd never be that alone again. He has been true to his promise.
There are nights when I go to bed okay... we may talk - watch a little television - and I think I'll be all right, but when the lights go out - the television is turned off - the images and thoughts of Greg's death and suffering surround me in the darkness and silence until I think I'll lose my mind - and a waterfall of silent tears follows.
Michael taps me lightly and gently says... "Come here." I turn over, he puts his arm around me - pulls me close, and I cry on his chest until the tears stop. At that point, I'm usually exhausted. After thanking him, we roll back over and I'm usually able to go to sleep. Without that 10 or 15 minutes of kindness from Michael, the night gets blacker and longer and the images don't go away - and I end up awake all night.
Sometimes, when walking from one side of the house to the other, I need to stop and sit down between rooms - to rest, catch my breath and let my oxygen saturation level rise back up to a safe level. Often Michael will come in to the room to check on me.
"Need anything? Want anything?" he asks. "Anything I can do for you?"
Most of the time I reply, "No thanks. I'm good." But sometimes, I answer, "Yes, please... could I borrow a hip?"
Michael comes over, stands close, and puts his arm around me where I'm sitting - and I lean my head on his hip. Sometimes I cry, Sometimes I just need to rest there a minute. Then I get up and go again and he goes back to whatever he was doing (usually packing orders) and we move on with life. It's hard.
I feel more "cared for" than I have ever felt in my life. This is too much to do alone.
I am incredibly grateful for Michael's care.
I've been fiercely independent - determined (read: bullheaded). I take care of myself - and everyone within my reach. No one takes care of me. I never expected anyone to take care of me. It didn't occur to me that anyone would.
Don't get me wrong. I had a great husband , steady and responsible. I never had to worry about a roof over my head. Physically, I've always been safe. Emotionally, I've always felt alone.
And now this. My son is dead and self-care is beyond me. My heart is crushed - my emotions are raw - my ability to take care of myself is non-existent. Most days I don't feel that I'll live very long.
I remind myself that I have two other sons, eight grandchildren. Its not enough. Head knowledge in itself is not strong enough to pull me out of this well of sadness.
The night Greg died, I spent all night alone in the den with the door closed - screaming - sobbing - rocking back and forth - feeling myself ripped to shreds by sadness. I didn't think I'd live through the night. I didn't want to live through the night. When the morning came, I was sickened that I was still alive. I didn't know how I'd get through the next day, let alone weeks and months. It was - without question, the worst day and night of my life.
When Michael realized what I had gone through that night, he felt awful and promised me that I'd never be that alone again. He has been true to his promise.
There are nights when I go to bed okay... we may talk - watch a little television - and I think I'll be all right, but when the lights go out - the television is turned off - the images and thoughts of Greg's death and suffering surround me in the darkness and silence until I think I'll lose my mind - and a waterfall of silent tears follows.
Michael taps me lightly and gently says... "Come here." I turn over, he puts his arm around me - pulls me close, and I cry on his chest until the tears stop. At that point, I'm usually exhausted. After thanking him, we roll back over and I'm usually able to go to sleep. Without that 10 or 15 minutes of kindness from Michael, the night gets blacker and longer and the images don't go away - and I end up awake all night.
Sometimes, when walking from one side of the house to the other, I need to stop and sit down between rooms - to rest, catch my breath and let my oxygen saturation level rise back up to a safe level. Often Michael will come in to the room to check on me.
"Need anything? Want anything?" he asks. "Anything I can do for you?"
Most of the time I reply, "No thanks. I'm good." But sometimes, I answer, "Yes, please... could I borrow a hip?"
Michael comes over, stands close, and puts his arm around me where I'm sitting - and I lean my head on his hip. Sometimes I cry, Sometimes I just need to rest there a minute. Then I get up and go again and he goes back to whatever he was doing (usually packing orders) and we move on with life. It's hard.
I feel more "cared for" than I have ever felt in my life. This is too much to do alone.
I am incredibly grateful for Michael's care.
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