Tag: grief

Wednesdays. I need to remember Wednesdays .
She died on Wednesday.
And the number 24.
She died on the 24th.
And her last words to me.

I’m afraid of remembering.
I’m afraid of forgetting.
I’m afraid.

Will this grief always be so relentless?
If it does ease, even the slightest bit, I worry that I’ll feel like I’m betraying her somehow.
That I’m forgetting.
That she will be more gone, more dead, if I forget to remember.

This is one of the many conundrums of grief.
It hurts to remember, it hurts to forget.

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I want to remember your stunning smile and your laughter.
I need to forget how on one of your last days
you sat on the side of your hospital bed
and watched the sunrise
while crying silent tears.

I want to remember your passion for food.
I need to forget those end of life requests
for berries and bread.
Requests I could not fulfill because of the
radiation- caused hole in your stomach
and the feeding tube.
But when you asked I said “yes”.

I want to remember your curiosity about the world
and your love of travel.
I need to forget how broken, how bereft you became
when you realized you wouldn’t be leaving the ICU,
not alive.

I want to always, ALWAYS remember your love for us,
ours for you.
I need to forget our wailing when you
took your last breath.

I want to remember your life, joy-filled, life-filled.
I need to forget your final days;
the despair I felt, the utter sorrow.

I want to remember you, dancing by the sea.
I need to forget your body
still and breath-less.

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This is for you, whose heart has been shattered by grief. Bless you in this place of seemingly endless suffering.
If I could, I would place my hand over your heart and say the words “bless you”. Bless you in this place of tears, of heartache .
May you feel seen and heard and known in this place. May you settle in to this offer of compassion.
I honor you- your heart is still beating, your lungs are still breathing. I honor your strength in this place, strength that doesn’t feel like strength at all.
I thank you for your truth-telling in this place, where the truth is gut-wrenchingly hard to bear.
Please remember there is no hurry, no have-tos, in this place of loss. Please give yourself time, time and space; as much as it takes.
I know you must sit, at times, in the darkness, letting the tears flow. My wish for you in this place of darkness, is that of soft surrender.
I am here too, in this place.

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For my Fellow Mourners

May the next step feel a little lighter than the last.

May sleep bring a gentle reprieve with its rest.

May the sun shine soft on your tear-stained face.

May the breeze blow kindness tenderly your way.

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grief is everywhere
I swear it oozes from the walls
it’s in the slump of shoulders
the shuffle of steps
the slowing of cognition

grief is everywhere
in my dreams
in my therapists’ office
in my husbands arms
in the eyes of my sons

grief is everywhere
the air in my lungs
the beat of my heart
the constant leak of tears
the memories that fill my mind from side to side

it’s in the urn
in the wildflower bouquet
in the lit candle
in the pictures everywhere
grief is everywhere

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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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