Month: September 2022

My heart, a burned out forest.

This image has come to me numerous times since Abi died.
Maybe because I live in the Pacific Northwest and Abi died during fire season. (It used to be called “summer”.)

Words come: destruction, smoldering, death…blackened, burned, choking. Empty, vacant, lifeless…silent.

I feel, quite literally, burned out; like I must look and smell of death.

In this heart there is no more life. There are no sounds of life, like before.
There is only one breath, and then another. More of a gasp, the air is so cloyed with ash.

There’s been a two and a half year fire and it has destroyed me.

To see the condition of my heart brings such sorrow. It feels like I cannot possibly survive. I’ve seen the destruction that the fires bring, and now, that destruction is within me, at my very core.

Somewhere near, there is a living forest. The air is crisp and clear, filled with the chatter of squirrels and birds’ song. My sons’ lives inhabit this place. Yet it feels a million miles away.

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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.

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Grief lends
a sharp edge
to everything:
to my inhale
as if
the very air
has
the ability
to cut.

The rasp of voices,
birdsong even.
Scritch of a match strike,
sharp light of flame.

Smells, edged reminders,
slicing my heart anew.

Sleep too, with its
sorrowful dreams
can cut.

There’s no respite
because grief lends a sharp edge
to everything.

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“Are there any berries?” These were some of your last words to me. I immediately thought of blackberries, your favorite. How desperately I wanted to give you some. Such a simple request. But it was too late.

And so it begins.
Purple. A reminder of you. (But isn’t everything a reminder of you?)
Your purple water bottle that always left the house with you.
The amethyst by your bed.
The new blouse you bought that time we went clothes shopping together.
My phone case, the one you bought for me, covered with purple flowers.
The sticker you gave me that says “first my mother, forever my friend”.
Lavender of course; a favorite scent. That time when we stood together at a lavender farm, surrounded by so much beauty. The pledge to each other to get matching lavender tattoos one day.
Now it’s too late.

The purple silk pillowcase that I didn’t want to wash.
The purple coat you handed down to me.
But most of all I think of royalty, for you are queen of my heart.

And now, the ribbons that surround bunches of lavender- decorations for your memorial service.
There’s the purple velvet bag that covered your urn and now lays in layers around its base.
But most of all, you. I just think of you.

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“The truth is, we all need a mentor.”
I certainly agree with the above statement. And, I don’t really have a mentor. I have found some help in podcasts, especially ones with David Kessler and, of course, Meghan’s books.
There is one woman in my life who suffered a horrible loss quite a few years ago now and she has reached out to me a few times. Hopefully we will be able to get together to talk some time soon.
There’s also a couple in our community, who lost a son a few years ago and they have offered to meet with us.

There’s a saying that says something like “when the student is ready, the teacher will appear”. I’m hoping that happens.
My therapist has also told me that there are therapists that just work with those in grief and she can refer me if needed.

So I guess there’s help out there, maybe even a mentor for me.

Some writers here have written about being their own mentor. I like that idea and am giving it some thought. 5 years ago, I lost my mom and then, 6 months later, my sister. So grief is certainly not a stranger to me but losing my daughter has taken it to a whole new level. I think somewhere deep deep inside, I know that I have the strength to do this, but 99% of me still believes I cannot survive this loss.

I came back to add that I find the Lord of The Rings encouraging. There are many instances where Frodo truly feels he cannot go on and do what life has asked of him. But with the help of friends, especially Sam, he is able to keep taking the next step.

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without ceasing
I have been
devoured
consumed
hollowed by
inescapable
memories.

wanting relief
I ventured
distressed into
substantial mountains
of chronic lack.

again
truth dawns:
she, the beautiful
is gone.

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Again I come to today’s prompt raw. I think it’s because my daughter’s memorial service is coming up this weekend and I’m dreading it. I’m imagining that after the service I will feel even more finality ; having the reality that she is gone sink in at a deeper level.

How to be kind to my sad self. A list:
Say no when I don’t want to do something.
Ask for alone time when I need it.
Say yes when my desire to isolate is hurting me.
Eat something.
Call my doctor for something to help me sleep. Take what is prescribed.
Perfectionism: give it up!
Try to spend time in nature. Allow the sights and smells in.
Cry without judgment.
Give and receive hugs.
Let people help.
Stay in bed. Take a nap or rest as wanted.
Be honest, even if you think people are tired of hearing it.
Write badly. Just get the grief out.
Light a candle
Take deep breaths (remember to breathe).

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Hello, I am grief.
You’ve met me before, remember? When your mother died, and then your sister. I came to you then; I stayed awhile.
This time I think I’ll settle in… sit beside you, sleep in your bed, follow you wherever you go, whomever you’re with. Yes, I think I’ll stay.
I know you don’t like me, you wish I’d leave. But the reason I’m here, the reason I stay is because, really, I’m just another name for love. Yes it’s true, I’m here because you loved.
It seems hard that love can hurt so bad. But love can and does hurt.
I know I weigh you down and make it hard for you to accomplish even the simplest tasks. I know, because of me, you cry, you ache, you mourn. I know and I’m sorry. But this, this is love.
Some may refer to me as the darker side of love, and that may also be true.
The truth so often hurts.
All I ask of you is that you let me stay for as long as I need to. There are things only I can teach you and my teaching takes time.

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The past day and a half has been extraordinarily hard. I have felt so raw, so exhausted.

Feeling empty and hollow and full of sorrow at the same time. Wondering again how I’m supposed to survive without her.

Today’s prompt is about smells and the memories they evoke.

Each morning she’d start her day with tea. Good Earth tea, to be exact (because, she said it reminded her of childhood), and the house would be filled with the smells of cinnamon and orange.

No one drinks it now. The box sits untouched in the cabinet.

She smelled of cocoa butter and lavender, mixing her lotion with the essential oil that she loved.

I use her lotion now (it’s almost gone, I will buy more) and the smell of lavender brings her right back.

A very nice lady offered to make us a quilt from some of Abi’s clothing. Picking out the clothes of course involves going into her closet. Wow. I now understand why people hang onto clothing and resist cleaning out the closet.

I find myself wanting to go in and close the door, drinking in what remains, the scent of her.

I still have the comb they used for her hair while she was in the ICU, and I also have a lock of her hair. Both smell of her in those last days.

Every night I touch the lock of hair, smelling it, remembering. Her.

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