The week that was

It will be two years, on July 4th since Greg took his own life.  If you had told me two years ago that I'd be alive today, I would have told you it wasn't possible.   Without God's mercy and grace, I wouldn't be here.

I keep waiting for grieving to get better - to get easier - but it never does.  People talk about healing.  There is no healing.  There is no day - no time - that this will ever be gone.  It's permanent.  It changes from day to day, but it is never gone. 

I found this "thing" below on Facebook (cartoons, pictures and "inspirational" sayings are what Facebook is becoming, it seems).  This is all very nice, but I don't think the "bench in the sun" day ever comes.  It sounds like you reach some magical point where you take a deep breath and say, "Whew!  The awful part is over!  Now I can move forward.  I'm okay."  Really?  This all hinges on one unknown cure point in the future - and once you hit that point... you're okay???  I don't think so.

 

Whoever wrote this didn't lose a child.  They couldn't have.

Do I sound angry?  I suppose I do.  I suppose I am.  I am every emotion you can imagine - every day.

An hour from now (or 5 minutes), I'll be drowning in sadness - unable to stop the tears.  Then I may get a text from a grandchild and my heart will lift, and I'll be overcome with gratitude for that text - and love for that grandchild.

This week is the worst.  I'm struggling to find any equilibrium.  Holidays, Greg's birthday, his wedding anniversary, his son's graduation from high school, his children's birthdays - all those things push me to the edge of my endurance.  I try to survive until the wave washes over me and then returns to the sea and I can regain some footing.

Every time another wave comes, I wonder if I'll be swept back to the ocean with it and drown,

Today I am weak - with no "fight" left in me.  Below is the "Bible verse of the day" in my devotional.  I'm staking my life on it. 

"The Lord will fight for you.  You need only to be still."  Exodus 14:14

A Star is Born

Two nights ago we watched A Star is Born with Gaga and Bradley Cooper.  I had no idea about the ending - was not prepared for Bradley Cooper's character to hang himself.  In the previous version, Jackson Maine (played by Kris Kristofferson) died in a car accident (still sad, but more appropriate).

I enjoyed the movie up until that point, but when the character pulled his truck out of the garage and then walked back into the garage, carrying a black, leather belt, my heart started to pound.  No... no... no...    I could hardly breathe - definitely couldn't watch - couldn't listen - and couldn't escape.  Thankfully, Michael saw what was happening and fast forwarded, muting the sound.  All I could do was look at the ground and sob.  It's taken two days for me to be able to talk about it.

I plan for the big things - birthdays - holidays - events.  Even though they're painful, they're not a surprise.  I know I'll have to deal with them.  It's the things that show up unexpectedly - the surprises - that crush me and leave me breathless - searching for a way out - some way to avoid this shattering pain.  And there never is a way out.

The only way out - is straight through the middle of the pain.  I know it.  I'm just not always brave enough to do it - especially when it comes out of nowhere and slams me in the chest like a runaway freight train. My guard was down.  I wasn't ready.  I'll never be ready.

Why did the movie need to end that way?  The choice to have Jackson Maine take his own life is, in my opinion, a poor one.  With all of the substance abuse issues currently drowning us - with so many lost souls committing suicide - with depression running rampant, is it wise (or necessary) to romanticize suicide? The ending of this movie disappoints, to say the least - and causes me to relive the heartbreak of Greg's death.

You can  be sure that from now on, I'll check the spoiler alerts for the endings of any movie I see in the future.  I don't want to relive this.

My "go-to" guy

My garage door broke - again.  It's been repaired at least four times that I know of.  I know Greg fixed it more than once.  I think it's time to replace it and stop patching the problem.  So... who do I call this time?  Greg would know.

I can Google things like anyone else, but that won't really tell me who's good - who's reliable - who should not be called. Getting advice from Greg was way better than online reviews.  He knew!

And... I need stone (crush and run, I think it's called) on part of my driveway.  I don't even know where to begin.  Do the people who deliver the crush and run also spread it - or do they just dump it?
 
For any question - on almost any subject, Greg was always my "go-to" guy.  He knew more things about more things than anyone I've ever known.  Not just pretended to know.  He knew.  If he didn't know, he'd find out.

"Hey Greg!  Who do I call about crush and run - and what's the process?"

"Hey Greg!  I think I need a new garage door.  Would you mind taking a look?  Or tell me who to call?"

Greg would have an answer.  After talking to Greg, I'd know who to call.  I'd know where to start.

Today, I'm lost - overwhelmed by the tasks ahead of me.  (I know!  I know!  I overwhelm pretty easily these days)

I'll figure it out.  I may not get the best price - or the best person, but I'll get it done.

I miss Greg for more reasons than I can name, but today... I really miss my "go-to" guy. 

23 months

Today is the 4th.  23 months.  1 month short of a year.  It's been almost 2 years since Greg died and the pain still cuts me in half - like a sword - clear through my bones - I bleed tears. 

I still don't understand.  I'll never understand.

I looked in the mirror today - it doesn't happen often - and all I could see were purple circles under sad eyes.  Is that who I've become?

I don't have the energy today to be more. 

Graduation

Today Greg's 2nd oldest (I hate the phrase "middle child") graduated from high school - without his father.  Tragic.  What does an 18-year-old do with that - in his heart - in his head?  How does that affect his life from this point on.  

I didn't go - wasn't physically able to go (or invited).   Graduation was at "the Bob" (Bob Carpenter Center at the University of Delaware - a multi-function arena named after Bob Carpenter, a benefactor and trustee). Parking is horrendous - a lot of walking - bleacher seating - just too hard for me - plus - my heartache would pollute the happiness and pride that Amy and her sons shared today.  Amy was wise not to invite me.

The graduation was streamed live - so I was able to watch the live feed and see the graduation (incredibly good quality on the live feed).

Another milestone missed.  

Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day - my second since Greg died.   Last year was hard.  This year is harder.  A lot has happened since last year - cancer - a life-changing fall - a spirit-crushing experience with someone who owns a large part of my heart.  It's been a spiritual valley that challenges my willingness (and ability) to fight on.

Greg was great at remembering Mother's Day.  He chose a card carefully, happily came to visit and spend time - and often brought one or more of his children with him.  I could count on him.  I knew he would come.  I knew that he came because he loved me - because I was a joy in his life - not a duty (although doing something because it's a duty is not to be underrated - or underappreciated)

I loved his company.  I loved his mind - and even more, I loved his heart.  He was my counsel - my problem solver - my friend - my heart - my son. I loved seeing his truck in the driveway.  Strangely enough, he appeared to to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed his.  I saw him and/or heard from him often.  I miss the calls. I miss his visits.  I miss my son.

The last two years before Greg died were hard.  He accused me of hacking into his phone - of sabotaging his life in more ways than I can count.  Because I always told him the truth, you could see and feel the conflict between what he thought was happening and what I told him.  His reality was so skewed by drugs that his daily existence was painful beyond measure.  I wanted to help.  I tried to help.  I wasn't able to help. 

On Mother's Day (and every day) I remember it all. 

International Bereaved Mother's Day

Tomorrow is Mother's Day and I'm a mess.  I still look for Greg's truck - still listen for that rumble coming up my driveway - still can't imagine that I won't see him tomorrow.

Mother's Day is another "event" that screams Greg's absence.  With every event, it's not just the day of the event, holiday, birthday, or whatever else that is so painful - it hurts in anticipation of "the day" and also after "the day".

Mother's Day is hard because not only am I missing a child, I have two other children who are precious to me and who I love beyond words.  I don't want grieving for Greg to diminish the joy of Mother's Day with my other two sons.  I want to be 100% present with them.

I recently discovered that there is an International Bereaved Mother's Day (and Bereaved Father's Day) that occurs one week before Mother's (and Father's) Day.  

I'm grateful that a day exists to acknowledge this strange and awful mother/child relationship that exists when your child is no longer on this earth, but in heaven.   I'm grateful for a day that I can think of Greg, speak Greg's name and embrace the son who won't be with me next weekend.

 

"Some mamas will be drawing or painting hearts on their hands and writing their missing child’s name inside as a beautiful outward testimony to an inward reality.  Every day we carry our missing child in our hearts"