Lost and Wandering
The bathroom floor was hard and a bit cold, but it was refuge from the caring eyes all around. I sank down and opened my book, my daughter's scrapbook. I opened it with the purpose in my mind of reading everything I had written and allowing the tears to come. I fulfilled my purpose. I have no idea how long I sat in there. I know I got a little uncomfortable--the motel bathroom floor wasn't very big and it definitely was hard. I looked through Nicole's book and I cried, not gentle tears that slowly trickled down, but gut-wrenching sobs. Not loud wails because I didn't want everyone to know, though I think they suspected and they cared. But it was better than crying in Marshall's and having a complete stranger ask me if I was okay.
It's not that friends didn't care--they did and they loved me in spite of my sadness this weekend and for that I will always be grateful. But when I need a good gut-wrenching cry, I don't like people watching me. Dave is the only one I really want around at a time like that.
Why did the grief strike on a weekend I was away with friends, you may ask? I can explain. The closer I get to my due date, the harder it becomes. Other people's happiness can create a huge void and hunger in my heart. There is a spot in my heart that wants to rejoice with them in their joy, but overriding the joy is the face of loss. It comes, it stares, it creeps in and it overtakes. There is almost a physical ache in my arms that longs to hold my baby girl, to wrap my arms around her and kiss her sweet little face.
Yes, I know she is better off with Jesus, but right now I don't care too much about that. I want her with me--in my arms. I would protect her and keep her safe--or I would die trying. Yes, I know that she will never have to experience pain and suffering the way other little children do, but I don't care about that either. I just want to hold her and touch her and love on her the way mothers do to their little girls.
Don't try to offer me platitudes---I want none of it. I don't even know that I want your sympathy, though I know you mean well. I want your love though-- I don't want you to give up on me--I don't want you to walk away and think I am impossible. I want you to care. Don't hide from me though I will hide from you. You may call, but I may not answer; you may text, but I may not respond. Don't take this as rejection, it's not meant that way. It's just one person's journey through grief. If I have learned anything, it is that the process of grieving is different for everybody, but underlying it all is the deep, solid, unending ache of loss that can feel overwhelming. Be patient with me is all I ask. Give me space, but don't go too far. Don't take it personal if I don't want you to come to my house or if I let you come, but I don't communicate well. I want to learn to care for others again, but sometimes, the energy of survival consumes all the energy I have and it's too much work to come up with questions to show you that I care about your life. Know this, I do care even though I am showing the opposite. Someday, Lord willing, it will be different.
It's not that friends didn't care--they did and they loved me in spite of my sadness this weekend and for that I will always be grateful. But when I need a good gut-wrenching cry, I don't like people watching me. Dave is the only one I really want around at a time like that.
Why did the grief strike on a weekend I was away with friends, you may ask? I can explain. The closer I get to my due date, the harder it becomes. Other people's happiness can create a huge void and hunger in my heart. There is a spot in my heart that wants to rejoice with them in their joy, but overriding the joy is the face of loss. It comes, it stares, it creeps in and it overtakes. There is almost a physical ache in my arms that longs to hold my baby girl, to wrap my arms around her and kiss her sweet little face.
Yes, I know she is better off with Jesus, but right now I don't care too much about that. I want her with me--in my arms. I would protect her and keep her safe--or I would die trying. Yes, I know that she will never have to experience pain and suffering the way other little children do, but I don't care about that either. I just want to hold her and touch her and love on her the way mothers do to their little girls.
Don't try to offer me platitudes---I want none of it. I don't even know that I want your sympathy, though I know you mean well. I want your love though-- I don't want you to give up on me--I don't want you to walk away and think I am impossible. I want you to care. Don't hide from me though I will hide from you. You may call, but I may not answer; you may text, but I may not respond. Don't take this as rejection, it's not meant that way. It's just one person's journey through grief. If I have learned anything, it is that the process of grieving is different for everybody, but underlying it all is the deep, solid, unending ache of loss that can feel overwhelming. Be patient with me is all I ask. Give me space, but don't go too far. Don't take it personal if I don't want you to come to my house or if I let you come, but I don't communicate well. I want to learn to care for others again, but sometimes, the energy of survival consumes all the energy I have and it's too much work to come up with questions to show you that I care about your life. Know this, I do care even though I am showing the opposite. Someday, Lord willing, it will be different.
I love you and so wish i could take some of your pain. I'm so grateful that you use this blog to let us know how you are doing. It helps us to understand and know where we need to be. I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere. Love, your Sis -Dorothy
ReplyDelete