I had an entirely different post written for today. It was reasonably upbeat, and it was about books–my books, what I’ve finally started working on, now that my mind is allowing a few creative juices to flow again.
And then today was a bad day. “They” say I’ll have a lot of those in the coming weeks, months, years, the rest of my life. The grieving process, especially when it is over someone close, someone who wasn’t supposed to die–like your child–is long, eternal, apparently, with lots of ups and downs along the way.
I wonder if I’ll go through an angry phase? Because goddamn it, I didn’t sign up for this. Not only did I not sign up to be parent to one child, I didn’t sign up for these rollercoaster emotions. Generally, I’m a pretty even keel gal. A cheerful, happy even keel gal. This grieving crap, these random crying jags, this incredible pain in my heart, I hate it. Hate, hate, HATE it.
Hm, apparently the angry phase may have hit. I’ll have to mention that my therapist next time I see her. Yep. I’m seeing a therapist. Never thought I’d utter those words. Not that I have anything against them, I just never expected to need one. But holy God, do I need one now.
I need someone to tell me what the hell to do, because there are minutes, hours, days when I have no clue. I still have another child left, and all my hopes and dreams and future expectations are now pinned on her, and I need someone to tell me how to not smother her, drown her in everything I want for her future. Because regardless of my wants, my pain, my loss, it’s still her future, her life.
There are a few reasons today was a particular bad day. It probably feels extra rough because last week we were on vacation, and aside from a handful of minor tears, we managed to have a good time, enjoy ourselves… forget for a while.
And then we came home. To a closed bedroom door at the end of the hall. To the knowledge that at some point, we should probably deal with all the stuff in there and turn that room into some sort of living space. I can’t decide between an office or a guest room. Would people really want to sleep in there? It didn’t happen in there, but it was his room, his space. Hell, do I really want to have an office in there? Do I want to sit at a desk in there, just like he used to?
We also came home to a pile of sympathy cards. I think I made it through four before my husband literally ripped the envelopes out of my hands because I was sobbing almost uncontrollably. “Stop,” he said. “You don’t have to do this all at once.” In my head, though, I wanted to get it over with, like at some point I’d actually be able to move on.
Then I went back to the day job on Monday. A near hour long commute. Plenty of time to… Think. About. It. I average about forty minutes before the tears start. Every day. Buy my books, people, so I don’t have to put myself through the torture.
(Just kidding. Sort of.)
And then we received this letter.
Yeah. I know. I should be proud, immensely satisfied that we made a decision that helped two people possibly see, or at least see better (he didn’t have perfect eyesight–he was my son, after all). And I am. I’m so, so glad we chose to give whatever we could to whomever we could.
But good Lord, it hurts. I mean, it’s a deep down, physical pain. Like childbirth. Or a kidney infection. (I’ve suffered through both.) Or maybe the two combined. Except the pain isn’t dulled with pain meds. (Okay, I cannot tell a lie: wine helps. Probably more than it should, but I’m not overly concerned with that aspect at the moment…)
Still, if I had to do it again (Oh God, no), my decision would not change. I would still give whatever I could to whomever would benefit. So much in life is not fair, is out of our control. If I can give someone back the control to be able to see that next step or that bump in the sidewalk, I will. Besides possibly giving them a better quality of life, I’m giving someone a little more control. And as someone who lost control just about a month ago and isn’t sure if/when she’ll ever get it back, I understand that need.
Tami Lund is a wine drinker, romance writer, and unintentional depressing-as-hell blog poster. She’s determined to give the characters in her books happily ever afters, every time, because, well, the real world sucks sometimes. If you’re curious, her website is: http://tamilund.com. There might be a free read. Or two.