Last weekend, another family lost their son. Grandparents lost a grandson. A cousin, a nephew, a friend. Gone.
I wanted to say to them, “I know. It’s horrible. It’s unimaginable. It is the worst.” But what I actually said was, “There aren’t words to cover this heartbreak. If you need to talk to another bereaved mom, I’m here.” As if I’m some expert. I’m not; I know I’m not. Five and a half months seems like an eternity and nothing at all; I’m just a beginner, myself.
But I can listen. I can relate.
There’s no fixing it. No fixing the loss, the sadness, the disbelief, the second-guessing. There are questions that beg for answers, but the answers are gone. Forever. They left with our person. In place of answers, we are helpless and hopeless, plagued by orphaned questions. There’s no fixing this. Time may allow us to adjust, but we can’t go back to our old selves.
We don’t know our new selves.
The hollow, aching chest? Yes. It’s real. I had no idea I could be so sad, feel loss so deeply that my chest would actually hurt, but I did and it did. I’d find myself driving home after school, often crying the tears I’d fought all day, my fist pressed against my breast bone. I tried to press away the pain, but it wouldn’t go. It’s still there, but has settled lower. Deeper. That pain is making itself at home, an unwelcome guest in my being.
The exhaustion? Yes. It’s overwhelming. I’ve never been so tired in my life. This exhaustion continues to plague me. Once or twice a week, I’ll get a good night’s sleep–more than two hours at a time and not be wide awake in the middle of the night–but it doesn’t really matter. I’m still so tired, as if I’m carrying invisible weights. This exhaustion is different. It depletes my body, my mind, my soul. Healing a broken heart–mourning a person and his promise, his future–is work. This exhaustion is systemic. When I had babies, the prevailing advice was to sleep when they slept. I don’t know what advice exists to fight this exhaustion, other than to get up the next day and try again. Or don’t. Some days, getting up is out of the question and exhaustion wins. Grief wins.
The triggers? Everywhere. Grocery shopping has never been fun, but until August it wasn’t torture. Those first few trips to the store were awful. Every aisle seemed to taunt me with things I bought specifically for Cooper. Now, months later, grocery shopping is just another thing I have to do, and like so many other things, sometimes it really sucks. Other times, it’s no big deal. Some triggers, I expect; certain words or sounds make me flinch. I can work on desensitizing myself to those triggers. The ambushy triggers? Those are a different story. A rude, hateful, mean, different story.
The tears? Endless. I never imagined I’d be crying every day, but I am. I don’t love the crying, but I can’t help it and I’ve stopped fighting it. Yesterday I cried in class and the world did not end. The lights were off for the movie (which made me cry), but I definitely sniffled. I’ve fought that “weakness” since August, but maybe it isn’t a weakness. Those tears are a very real part of me right now. They happen.
This club? Worst. Club. Ever. Nobody wants to join this club, but we are many and we understand. This club won’t replace friends; this is a different type of kinship. This club is the Aflac of friendships. Supplemental. Here in an emergency. This club specializes in validation. In sanity assurance. In acceptance. In open arms.
This existence? It’s sad and lonely, but I try each day to find some good. Good does exist, but is so easily overshadowed by this fight to get through each day.
Another family lost their boy. I know. It’s horrible. It’s unimaginable. It is the worst. There really aren’t words to cover this heartbreak.
Woods Writes 