The 8th Hard Thing

morning is the hardest part-

waking

feeling the grief

anew.

having to give up

the oblivion

of sleep

that covers the pain

for awhile.

remembering

knowing

she’s not here

she’s gone.

by

I sit here

without her

I am empty-

carved bare

like bone on bone-

scraped

flesh-less

raw

stripped

Life has taken too much

Yearning for her

is like hunger-

hollowing me

by

In the beginning she didn’t know how to start, what to say, what to write, which story to tell. In the beginning there was snow and deep sadness. Because it felt like the beginning of the end. So much sadness.

There was black coffee and stilted prayers and two dogs just sleeping. She was alone and lonely, feeling sad and anxious.

In the beginning she was so tired, so emotionally exhausted. She’d rather be back in bed. Can’t wait for bedtime to come.

She thought of the beginning of motherhood. That journey of loving and giving. The birth, so long and drawn out; so all-encompassing. So so hard. It was a difficult beginning to the most beautiful thing- motherhood.

Even the tearing served as preparation. She didn’t know then but now it seems so clear, so true. That tearing and this. This time of pain and soul-bleeding.

Yes, it was the beginning of a beautiful journey leading right up to this excruciating pain.

by

I’ve forgotten

what it’s like

to wake without

a weight

pulling at my heart

To feel hope

to laugh the laugh of

the unencumbered

the free

by

I didn’t think it would be this hard and yet, I did. I did think so.
I felt afraid of diving in deep and putting all of it into words. I felt (and still feel) terrified, actually, of the writing and all the emotions it stirs. Coming to the page every day has been excrutiating. But I know I’m not alone in this, and there’s comfort in that.
I didn’t know I would cry every time I write.
I didn’t know I would cry every time I edit.
I didn’t know I would cry every time I read of someone else’s grief.
Every time.
I cried very little when Abi was living (and dying) with cancer.She had so much hope and I hung onto her hope as if my life depended on it, because it did.
I didn’t want her to see me crying because she wanted her life to be about, well, life, not death. Of course there were tears, but nothing like this. Not even close.
I didn’t know, for a long time, that she would die.
I didn’t know, for sure until the day before she died. That horrible day!
I didn’t know that she wouldn’t rally one more time, like she’d done so many times before.
I didn’t know.

I didn’t know there would be so many losses along the way, so many “little funerals” as she got more and more ill.
I didn’t know how much those losses were wearing me/ us down. Two and a half years of loss.

I didn’t know that pictures of her would become both a blessing and a curse.
I didn’t know that memories would too.
I didn’t know I would dream her brother was dead.
I didn’t know I would be so afraid of so much.

So much I didn’t know.

by

I wake choked.

The air is acrid,

heavy and filled with smoke

here in this place I now reside.

A burned out forest,

filled with black

stumps, snags and fallen trees,

testament to the life that was here,

before she died.

I walk and my feet

stir up clouds

of ash.

My head aches with it,

my eyes burn and tear.

Soon I am covered

and no amount of

scrubbing

relieves me of this,

this death,

this loss, this ravaged place.

I am stained with it,

grief.

by

If I could tell people something, tell them what is true, what is true about grief and love and loss, something they do not know, or can’t know, what would it be?

Waking every morning is like experiencing the loss all over again. As I come into consciousness, the last 3 years, the last days of her life and the finality of her death, all rush in as if it just happened yesterday. I open my eyes to a world that she is no longer part of and this reality feels too hard to bear.

Grief is VERY lonely. There are days when my phone is silent and it makes me think that everyone has forgotten this awful thing that happened. That they (you) are all moving on with life while I cannot. If you think about texting or emailing or calling, do it. Even if I don’t answer, know that hearing from you makes a difference. I understand that you don’t know what to say, so here are some ideas: “I’m thinking of you”, “I know you are hurting and I’m sorry”. And please don’t be offended if I don’t answer, or if my answer is brief. I also, don’t know what to say.

Even though I am out of bed and somewhat presentable, it still feels like I am dying inside. I’m doing my best to show up for life and it’s challenging. What you don’t see are the private tears and the fact that I stayed in bed for 2 hours after waking up. Grief is hard, hard work.

by

I am vacant

and

the wind

blows through

a

winter tree

stripped bare.

by