Grief is not linear. It’s all over the frigging place like an erratic heartbeat on an ECG chart. Its jagged like the mountain tops of the Rockies . Where I can one day laugh and converse with others as if my life was somehow restored, the next day ~ sometimes, the next hour ~ may find me curled up in a fetal position crying as if tomorrow isn’t going to come. It’s in those moments that I actually wish it wouldn’t. For me anyway.
It’s been almost 9 months. By the grace of God, the only thing that works in my favor is that time is passing so quickly. I wake up, and before I know it the day is done and that is one more day behind me : one day closer to closing my eyes for the last time and one day closer to joining my son and other relatives and friends who wait in the afterlife.
I have never felt so alone.
I miss my family but I rarely see them anyway unless I travel to them. They see one another often enough but no one wants to make the trip out here to visit me. I used to dream about one day bringing my family out here to visit so I could share the beauty of the islands and the mountains and the amazing sunsets with them. I used to fantasize about exchanging vows with Randy before them at sunset on Hornby Island on a hill that I love that overlooks the ocean. But alas, that is never to be. With my son gone I don’t know that I will ever feel joy again so going through the motions seems pointless anyway. I don’t want to marry again: it just wouldn’t be fair. I have nothing left of myself to give.
My sadness doesn’t go away. Every day it’s just relentless. But I played hockey today after lunch and I actually almost enjoyed it : the adrenaline and rush in a slap shot felt like release and afterward the cold wind in my face as I rode my motorbike home felt cleansing. But with twilight the sadness returned. I’m in bed now and my mind is racing and it won’t let me sleep. I’m out of sleeping pills, so I’m stuck laying here in the dark with my thoughts. I wish I could sleep. There is relief in sleep. I’ll get more pills at the pharmacy tomorrow. There is a prescription waiting for me.
I have survived Sam’s death for almost nine months: at least in so much as my heart continues to pump the blood throughout my body : my lungs filling with air to feed my brain. But no parent wants to survive the death of their child: the mere thought is grotesque and unnatural. That I continue to live feels like a cruel joke played by the Universe.
Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. It’s my day off. I’ll plant some flowers if the rains hold off…. walk the dogs and find some way to get through another day. And then night will come and another day will have passed. One day closer.
Maybe tomorrow my grief will be in the lower peaks on the graph.