She’d had a fairly unremarkable elective surgery earlier in the week. I talked to her the next day. She sounded great, optimistic even. And the next thing I knew, she was gone. I’ll never hear her voice again or feel her touch. My son might not remember her.
They visited for a few weeks in the fall. I’m really grateful I pushed for them to stay longer than originally planned. I’m grateful she got to meet all of her grandbabies. I have faith that she went to Heaven. I know she’s walking easily, chatting with her own mother. Oh, how I remember her grief when her own mother died. And now it’s my turn.
I can be happy for her and sad for me and my family. That divide which stands between life and death is stark. I was looking at the clouds as the sun rose. It was that moment when the clouds seem to shine with their own light: brilliant and dazzling. I felt like she was there in the midst of that glorious shining and I was under the deepest of dark clouds without her.
I told Landry I could almost pretend it hadn’t happened. My day to day life hasn’t changed. But there is this sick feeling in my gut and a feeling of nakedness – the vulnerability of grief.
Do you categorize your friends? These are the friends I drink with. These are my nerdy friends who like Dr. Who. These are my friends that would drive the get-a-way car. Well, now I have a list of friends who have lost someone close. They’ll get what I’m going through.
How are you?
It’s such an innocent question. I find I don’t know how to answer it anymore. Mostly I feel abysmal. I haven’t slept well since it happened and my appetite is low. I’m jet-lagged. I went home for a week to lay her to rest with my family. And now I’m back. Grief and fatigue and the stress of travel have done a number on me. I broke down and sobbed in the airport.
I wish I could be with her now, but I have work to do here. I have to raise my own babies. Some day, I will cross over myself. She’ll be there waiting for me with a smile and a big hug.