The “Tired” post now has 35 comments.

The last time I got almost that many comments was on April 13, 2009. Three days before Art died.

This post read…

—–

They told me to bring the kids in. They told me to bring the kids in. It’s over and I, I, I just ….

I
feel
nothing.

The hardest part about this… No wait, the right now hardest part about this is watching them grieve. My heart is in shards, little sharp deadly pieces.

Doctors and then Dr. Lill, Art’s doctor, comes in. He used the word

die.

 

Finally SOMEONE used that word!

Death, even in a hospital is whispered, in euphemisms – passed, gone, left, not there. None of those words speaks the truth. My husband is going to die.

Soon.

And when he does, he will be DEAD. Period.

No euphemizing that!

There will be no one to check my spelling. No one to wait for my call, saying I’m on my way home.

Oh God, I don’t want to be one of those single mothers whose kids are out of control!

There is a Sarah McGloughlin song. Only lyrics I can remember are:

“Hold on
Hold on to yourself
This is gonna hurt like hell.”

She’s right. And I know I don’t know what I’m doing.

I stand at this place, knowing I must fall into the gorge. I’ll survive, it’s just right now, I don’t want to go.

Oh shit fuck, shit fuck OW_@+#*(@#*()#*)%n .

I just want to vomit.

—

When I read it, it’s like I am reading a story
about someone else.

Only I know something the character doesn’t know
that even though I did not want to move, I would.

The movement was
so imperceptibly at times
that I would
swear
my grief was
going
backwards.

I move at a snails pace
with my protective shell
from one side of the road to ….

I learned the trick to getting through a day was the “I wills.”
I will put my feet on the floor.
I will stand up.
I will brush my teeth, or not.
I will feed the kids.
I will get dressed.
I will cry.
I may not do my hair.
I will get them to school.

And after that,
I will work.
I will call clients.
I will ask my assistant to do….
I will get my kids from school.
I will feed them dinner.
I will put them to bed.
I will put my pjs on.
I will cry.
I will go to bed.

Rising from loss requires no
bravery.
Only a simply thought:
“Right now, I will….”

As I approach the two year anniversary of his death,
poke my head out of my shell
and look back,
I see where I
started so long away
from
where I am
now.

I look up,
and know…

I will
keep moving.