learning to love life again…
 |
| the above print can be found here… |
Grief can be a tricky tide to navigate. I know that each day I have a choice to make. Some days it’s quite easy to get up and go about life’s busyness. The laundry, the housecleaning and the food prep. It’s rote at this point in my life. Muscle memory takes over, if you will.
Then there are days when my body feels like it’s carrying and extra thousand pounds and my heart is weighed down with such grief that I feel I cannot breathe.
On these days, choosing to find the joy hidden within daily life, is freaking tough my friends. As in “Lord give me the strength to stay upright and out of bed curled in the fetal position for the rest of my life” kind of Herculean strength that can only come from God.
Yesterday and today have been hard Herculean days. They weren’t any different than any other day, nothing particularly special going on but for whatever reason they have been extremely difficult to navigate.
The tears come with every photo I see. An email arrives talking about our sweet girl and I lose it, missing her so. A song is played on the radio and in an instant I am shot back in time with my Courtney. It just doesn’t end on these days.
I am told that this pain never really goes away, but the weight and power of it lessen as the heart grows to carry it all. I think of it as scar tissue growing over an open wound.
It will take time I know, but golly it’s exhausting to fight my way through it some days. I have so much to be grateful for in my life. Courtney was a gift from God who taught us how to love without limits. She was the BEST part of our family. We all agree on that. She was a miracle from day one and her presence is still so strong here in our home.
It’s just that she not really here to hold and cuddle, to read to and care for. I had no idea how much time we really spent together every day for twenty-two years. I just cared for her and now she’s not here and my days are so very empty.
I do not mean any disrespect to anyone. I love my babysitting job with my two sweet girls twice a week. I love lunching with friends and meeting for coffee and critique group with my writing homies.
 |
| October of 2014 |
It’s just not the same as being with my Courtney.
I guess that’s how it’s supposed to be when your child dies. Life changes in an instant. I am not who I was on December 26, 2015. I never will be again. As to I am supposed to be, I’ll let you know whenI figure it out.
For now, I just try to surround myself with as much joy as possible. It makes it a little easier to find it within myself. And when the Herculean days come, I just head to the nearest Baskin Robbins and begin and flavor #1.
Just keeping real my friends.
I know, there are no words that can comfort the pain, Mary. The grief of a mother is incomparable, and impossible to explain to someone who has not suffered the loss of a child. Even for the husband to understand the depths of the grief and loneliness is impossible to explain. Just know that you are in our daily thoughts and prayers. And the pain does lessen. The hurt and grief do not, and I'm afraid it won't until we are heaven side with our sweet girls. Prayers for the cross to grow a little lighter. HUGS! <3
I pray for God's grace for you and that He makes straight your crooked path.
God bless Mary! Writing, music, ice cream all sound like what the doc ordered. Big hugs!
"I am told that this pain never really goes away, but the weight and power of it lessen as the heart grows to carry it all." I believe this is true, Mary. What a profound way to express it. It's been over 3 years now for me, and when I look back, I wonder how I ever got through those first months. But it's that much better now, that I can look back and wonder. There are still days or moments, but it has gotten easier. I speak only from my own experience, of course, and I know that nothing I say can help, but only knowing people are there and care. Hugs to you.
Still praying for you and your family!
Praying.for.you.dear.always. I have no great words of comfort, save that HE loves you, and she is with HIM. She will be there with open arms to await you. +All for the Greater Glory of God!+
I know what you mean, Mary. Some days the grief is just there right beside you taking over. And other days, it feels more manageable. But I don't think we will ever be the same. I am at the one year mark tomorrow. I only had Rebecca for a brief time and I know how deep my pain is. I can only imagine the breadth and depth of yours. Prayers for you my sweet friend.
I feel like a meanie for pointing this out, but you have the year as 2015 under the picture of you with your beautiful daughter. I noticed it in a few places on your blog. I know you're going through a lot, and I'm not pointing this out to be mean. I'm sorry if it seems that way.
I'm praying for you.
Continuing to pray…..
This really helped me:
I once read a post from a Redditor (/u/GSnow) about grief and I've kept it
saved to send to family, friends and who ever else is in need of it.
"Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so
far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends,
best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives,
teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have
no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But
here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want
to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the
circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be
something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the
relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep,
so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a
testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even
gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And
the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a
testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first
wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating
around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that
was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of
the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing.
Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also
floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without
mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch
your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe
weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but
they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and
wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never
know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a
street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about
anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that
the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still
come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a
birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for
the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know
that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet,
sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll
come out.
Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't
really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other
waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have
lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks."
Dear Mary – I've been offline for a few months and just caught up on your blog. I am so very sorry for your loss. I will offer an hour of adoration for the consolation of your family. May God bless you and Mary prepare a spot under her mantle for you…where I'm sure Courtney is already 🙂
I'm so sorry for your loss. No one ever expects to outlive their children. I heard a sermon on Catholic radio the other day that all of our dearly departed that are in heaven are there with us at mass, along with all of the Saints and Angels in heaven. I hope you can find some comfort in knowing that your sweet girl is there with you during mass.
Take care,
Angela