Month: September 2022

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.

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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.

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I don’t have a name. I am not the person I used to be. My name used to be “Abi’s mom” and I cherished that name, Maybe I cherished it more than I should have. I certainly was honored to bear that name . Honored to mother such a beautiful soul.

The last 3 years saw a change in me. I became, once again, her caregiver. But, unlike when she was small, this felt somehow wrong and out of order.

I have no regrets. Though I do have painful and beautiful memories. The first time I saw her scar from the first of several major surgeries. How changed and raw and vulnerable she was, after being opened up like that. We joked about the Mercedes Benz insignia that scarred her from one side of her abdomen to the other, but it really wasn’t funny. Not at all.
Then there was the time when her newest wound wouldn’t stay closed and required a lot of care and attention. I was honored once again to offer such care, as if to lay it at her feet as a blessing. Blessing her body, blessing her soul. I also got to help her bathe and put lotion on her ravaged body. I got to hold her as she vomited from the chemo and place a cool rag on her forehead when she was too warm. Oh, the many little things I was blessed to offer.

Caregiver. I cared. I gave care.

And my mind goes to the last days of her life, just 3 weeks ago. Placing salve on her many bruises from the too many IV attempts. Running my fingers through her hair. Answering her last questions (“are there any berries?”, “can I have some bread?”, “will you help me dress?”, “will you help me pack?”) and all of the answers were “yes”. Oh, my heart.
The problem is I still care. I still long to give care.
Yet she is gone. I am not the person I used to be.
And
I have another name. Mother. Not just “Abi’s mom”, but “Ben’s mom” and “Jack’s mom”. And these names are like tethers to keep me here. They must.

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So I have joined a grief writing group.

When Abi was diagnosed I truly felt like I had lost the ability to express myself in writing. I still struggle with that feeling. It just felt too big, too awful for words. And it was.

But now I am going to try. And my purpose is not to write well. My purpose is to grieve. So, read at your own risk! I promise only to be honest with my grief. That’s all.

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Let us agree

for now

that we will not say

the breaking

makes us stronger

or that it is better

to have this pain

than to have done

without this love.

Let us promise

we will not

tell ourselves

time will heal

the wound,

when every day

our waking

opens it anew.

Perhaps for now

it can be enough

to simply marvel

at the mystery

of how a heart

so broken

can go on beating,

as if it were made

for precisely this-

as if it knows

the only cure for love

is more of it,

as if it sees

the heart’s sole remedy

for breaking

is to love still,

as if it trusts

that its own

persistent pulse

is the rhythm

of a blessing

we cannot

begin to fathom

but will save us

nonetheless.

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I am vacant

and

the wind

blows through

a

winter tree

stripped bare.

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