The Landscape

What's hard about writing about my grief is I hate pity. I don't want it.  Also I feel grief can be such a dramatic journey. I hate drama. Still, I write these words to comfort myself ( because writing has always been a way to process, to understand) and to let people know what it's like to grieve the loss of a child. I hope it helps you, reader, with the people in your life who may be grieving this loss.

I feel like my life is single days at a time. I went for a walk with a friend yesterday morning. She shares the same grief. Her son died two years ago. What was hard was hearing the pain; the ball of fire in the chest hasn't diminished. For me, I've gotten more used to carrying it. It's always there. I've learned sometimes pain can be ignored. Sometimes it can't.

I have this the analogy of my limb being torn off with Andrew vs being punched really hard in the stomach so you can't get your breath, then it hurts to breathe, then you have a bruise for a long time which was Oatie... Oatie I really miss him. I miss his comfort and presence in the house. I miss him padding along behind me and looking up at me with those big brown eyes. I miss his love.

I digress. There were a lot of similarities in our grief which was comforting. Crying anytime and anywhere. The pain and the dissonance of internal conflicts; being happy for your child who continues without their sibling and yet sad; tinged with sorrow that the other one won't see it, won't experience that. And yet, Andrew would so want that for Nadia.

I went through a stage a while ago which I told myself I should share. It just sounds odd... I missed Andrew's body. I ached to hold him in my arms again.  I felt like howling over never being able to touch him again, to get and give one of his good hugs, to stroke his cheek, to touch and tousle his blonde hair. I bore him. I still have the scar.  I carried him, hugged him, changed him, held him while he was sick, held his hand. I knew his body as only a Mom can. I watched him grow into a man. I'll never see his body, his smile, touch his hand, comfort him, hold him again. That truth, it still makes me weep.

I've learned a lot about my own expressions of sorrow. The mildest form is tears leak out of my eyes. I don't realize until the trickle hits my cheeks. Next,  my chest rises and falls; it's a sob but a quiet one. The worst are the whole body sobs. My chest is on fire. My whole body is moving. The sounds burst out of my mouth; they shock me. I feel like a stranger to myself.

When Andrew first died, all the crying was this primal body sobbing. I couldn't stop crying. I had to wait for it to stop.. And between that sobbing was numbness... I still have that. Sometimes, I feel nothing. It doesn't feel good or bad. It just is. I notice, which I know as a therapist, the cost of numbness is no other feelings. Gray landscapes make me tired. I slow down, why do anything? Every action is harder.

So here's comfort. I listened to this woman poet talk about the death of her brother. She talked about how it's not just memories. She said she carries him. And that helps me often. I carry Andrew inside. It's not the same as the physical presence. But he is in my chest, in my heart. I send love and prayers to him every day, sometimes more than once. I write to him. He is with me. I just wish, fiercely wish, he were outside, in this life again. But he is with me.

And the people who talk about him, they comfort me. So although I once felt this way in my own ignorance, I'll say to you, Don't be afraid of making me feel bad or worse...Tell me you think about my family, my pain or loss or Andrew. Bring it up. Take your cue from me as to how much I have the energy to share. Even just touch my arm or give me a hug. I'll know.. I don't want me or my grief (drama) to take over the gathering, the time together either. But grief can be so hidden. Grief can be so solitary, so lonely too....Acknowledgement as one traveler to another across this new landscape, helps.

Thank you friends for your thoughts and prayers.