Five months later, I had the thought that the grief would be
less, the pain not as stabbing. Jimmy
and I misguided in our thinking that we would be in a “better” place
today.
How wrong we were…
The tears flow so easily.
Daily.
I liken our tears to a cup filled to the brim, with the
water about to careen over the edge. Our
tears are now forever on the edge. It
takes no effort for them to topple over that thin rim. Once over, they continue to flow, to
pour.
The cry of grief is unlike any other cry that exists.
It’s one so visceral that it comes from the depths of your
core. One that comes out of
nowhere. At any given moment. Literally creeps in. One that doesn’t care where you are when it
arrives. The cry of grief is more primal
than it is an actual cry. It’s one that can’t be stopped until its
ready.
A cry that time can’t heal.
Day in and day out, we push.
Jimmy works non-stop throughout the day as if making up for a year’s
worth of time. I keep a full and busy
calendar between the boys, the foundation and other commitments.
But sometimes we push too hard. We make the outside world think that we are
okay. Give the impression…or say
everything is fine.
Guess what? We are liars.
Everything is not okay.
We aren’t okay. Sometimes. Much of the time. Our hearts ache
from morning to night and through the night.
We talk about her.
Every. Single. Day.
For our boys, for others and maybe even some for ourselves,
we feign happiness most of the time. Our
heart weighs so heavily in our body that we sometimes “joke” that we are
surprised we can move.
The grief is stifling.
The grief is debilitating.
The
grief is life changing.
Nothing in life compares to this grief. Jimmy knows firsthand. He lost his dad at a young age and has now
lost his daughter. He has shared with me
that for him there is not a comparison.
They are both incredibly devastating but also different. Losing his dad changed his childhood, he
shared, but losing Everly has changed him.
Our hearts ache with this desire to hold her again, to touch
her, to hear her squealy sounds, to feed her, to change her NG tube, to squeeze
her, to smell her. The thoughts of never
having this with her again comes on like a runaway train…with vengeance and can’t
be stopped. It causes devastation when
it hits and is completely unexpected.
Some days we don’t have the strength to push through. Some days we stay within the safety of our
home. Some days we rely on each other
here at the house…our little family. We
are thankful for my dad who comes over three days a week because he goes out
into the big world for us a lot. He
thrives on that, though I don’t doubt there are times when it’s hard for him,
too. I’m happiest when I’m in the “safety”
of my home and having dad do some of the errands, drop offs, pick-ups, etc. has
been a huge blessing. It allows us to
stay protected in our cocoon of the house.
No joke…the outside world is harsh.
We pretty much stayed in for the first month or so for this
reason but I’m finding that Jimmy and I still prefer our four walls to out “there.” I know it’s the same for my mom, too. It’s so incredibly difficult for each of us
to socialize in the midst of such deep anguish.
We find those “windows” of time when we can and we try to take full
advantage of those moments because they are so every fleeting. For the benefit of the boys and our own
well-being, we push, moving forward slowly.
We had been told early on that grief can get harder as the
months…year…years…progress. I remember
we all jokingly said we didn’t think that could be the case, maybe it was just them.
Ummmm…no.
Unfortunately, they were spot on.
The pain today is riddled with more agony and sorrow than it
ever was back in February, March, April.
Why? I wish I knew
the straight answer but I can only surmise that it goes back to the “bubble” I
wrote about early on after Everly went to Heaven. Call it shock, a God-given hedge of
protection…whatever it was, it allowed us to function…actually get up out of
bed each day and move from room to room, eat, have conversations. But now that coverage is gone. We have raw, open wounds.
Wounds that won’t heal.
Band-aids, like good days, mask the wound beneath the fabric
and later mask the scar behind.
From a personal standpoint and speaking for myself alone, I thoughtfully
post the good on Everly’s Facebook page…our progress, our family successes
after losing her. But I also try to be
bitterly honest, too, and share our struggles.
If I am nothing else, I’m authentic and real…probably to a fault
sometimes. And you know what? I don’t
care. I’d rather shoot straight on good
days AND bad ones.
We are ALL having a tough time right now. ALL of us.
The boys in their own way. My dad
in his and my mom in hers. And Jimmy and
I in ours. Even, Ala has shown us
moments of mourning.
Our lives are forever changed. I know that God will turn “this” into good. How?
Not a clue since all we can see right now is the blur through the
pain. I just don’t doubt that He
will.
Our hearts are like something broken into so many different
pieces that no matter how skilled one is at repairs, the item…like our hearts…can
never be put back together. While we
have faith in our forever future, our hope for something better, we also have
real pains, real hurts.
We are hurting.
It’s real, it’s a tangible kind of hurt.
Our cry deafening.
Our grief palpable.
Still.
