To me, grief used to be something I cried through. There was a definite gradual slope to it: Crying a lot, crying a little less and remembering, and then a little less with some introspection until there was a kind of acceptance which marked the end. My daughter Emilie's passing away has been a grief like no other. The beginning equivocated a pinball machine on steroids. Not only was there quite a bit of crying which is a given, but there was also the inability to settle upon any one task or thought or decision as simple as what I wanted to watch on T.V. My soul would not land anywhere and be still.
It's hard for my brain, heart and soul to process life without her, and when I remember too much, the tears start to flow. Memories are so inconsiderate because they appear at the most awkward of times--driving down the road, in the bathroom, at my desk at work--they don't consider audiences or circumstances or appropriate timing. And sometimes the sadness just becomes too much to where I can't move or breathe. At those times, the whole world is frozen in some grey void, and I feel very far away.
As cancer parents, I do feel like we are strong for all that we have suffered. There are many parents who scoff at that notion. They hate people telling them they are strong, but I have railed against that and claimed that if we are able to wear pants and brush our teeth every day, then we are strong. Otherwise I would be wasting away, wallowing in my bed forever. Maybe I'm setting an extremely low bar here, but as I alluded before, losing a child is a supremely and achingly unique circumstance in that the parents who come out of the whole ordeal in one piece and with a sliver of sanity are rock stars.
Now, that's not to say that I really feel like a rock star most of the time. Really the only time I feel that way is when I can step beyond my grief and look at the world outside of that bubble, so the 10% of time when I pump my fists and tout my strength is very disproportionate to the 90% that I feel like a hot mess. I still believe in that strength, but I have to remind myself daily of it.
I also have moments when I rail against the universe, believing I am entitled to a life of profound comfort and happiness because of all I have been through, but the harsh reality is there are no guarantees for that. In my mind, I reason that I've suffered enough for ten lifetimes, so the joy should equal the pain, right? If anything, my grief has taught me that life is one chaotic complicated unpredictable mess, and hopefully I'm building a measure of resilience in spite of it all.
I guess that what this all comes down to is hope. There is the spark of hope that one day I will be able to make sense of the grief. I have hope that I will be able to call upon the strength when I need it to make it through another day. Hope keeps me looking ahead to the other side of the darkness because somewhere deep inside of me I know the other side is there. Then, maybe, I can remember what it is like to breathe effortlessly and be still.
