Thursday is the Day

Here is the link to her obituary, with details for visitation should anyone want to visit.

Today was…strange. Grief is not linear.

Most of the day, I’ve felt normal. Life chugs along, as always. I still had a multitude of tasks to accomplish, family members to talk to, and two kids and a puppy to care for in the midst of a cavern looming in my chest. The black darkness of this cavern weighs heavily, crushing the breath from my lungs. Yet, my brain remains steadfast and my heart stonewalled.

I’m not consciously avoiding her. I don’t think. Well, maybe I am.

I couldn’t allow myself rest today. Or to cry. Or to pause. I bounced between one task to another; people still need me. People who are still alive.

Despite seeing her photo and re-reading her obituary that I wrote, I felt…nothing. It’s bizarre to see someone you love and feel nothing. At the time, I thought that nothingness meant I was okay. Now I suspect it means that my mind is blocking me from processing anything further in an attempt to protect and preserve itself. Even as I write this, the crushing weight in my chest looms and the nausea in the pit of my stomach continues to expand.

Normally I’m not afraid of feeling. I’m not sure I’m afraid this time. It seems almost as though I’m holding it all in for our last goodbye, for the sake of closure. Not that I want it to be this way, but it seems as though I have no choice. I’m waiting for the last stand. The final goodbye. A word which, so far, I cannot say.

The night tends to be when my emotions runneth over, and I succumb to tears. Without the distraction of never-ending tasks, it seems I try to go to pieces. I let it come. The most troubling part is that the crying does not seem therapeutic. In every other scenario I have faced, the crying has been a relief. A lifting of burden. This time, it’s nothing relieving; if anything, it just seems to suck me into a pit of my own despair.

Guilt is by far the worst feeling in this grieving. I have so much guilt, and a few potential regrets.

I couldn’t be there when she passed. I’ve been sick and I am terrified of flying. I can’t help but think she would’ve wanted me there; and I wanted desperately to be there. Despite talking to her on FaceTime on her last lucid day, I didn’t feel much solace. She needed me, and I wasn’t there.

Many people will throw platitudes my way: “She loved you, she’d understand.” Yea, she would’ve, but I wouldn’t want to put the dying woman in the position of needing to understand why her sweet girl was not there holding her hand. When I think too long, I find myself disgusted and ashamed that I didn’t try harder to make it to her bedside.

Rationally, I know it’s not making sense. She really did understand. She also had anxiety and knew what it meant to raise kids and be sick and so forth. Yet I feel as though I must berate myself for being so fearful, busy, and selfish - whether the actions deserve condemnation or not. It’s all relative.

Wallowing in the pain of my mistakes somehow makes me feel accountable; like as long as I’m in misery, I’m repentant. This is also a falsehood. I know it’s not rational. And yet, here we are.

This guilt and pain will subside. The suffering will be put to rest sometime soon. But then what will I feel? The stinging agony of her absence? The narcissistic bitterness of her leaving me alone on this god forsaken rock full of loons? The endless emptiness of never feeling as though I’ll be whole again?

Today is a day of grief, sadness, fear, frustration, anger, and denial. It’s the 12 stages. I’m at the beginning, and I have a journey ahead. Though I’m not looking forward to the emotions, I’ll at least feel relief when I can be in touch with my full humanity once again.