Follow by Email

Thursday, January 26, 2012

A Gentle Ache

So last night I was snuggling with my husband on the couch, having a nice evening, watching "Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon" (starring Basil Rathbone, my personal favorite Sherlock) and suddenly I was blindsided by grief.  The movie had ended and I glanced up at the picture of Eddie that hangs on my living room wall, the one with him smiling so big his eyes disappear, and I missed him so much I couldn't move.  It was like I had forgotten to remember that he was gone, if that makes any sense, and suddenly the loss was so keen it was unbearable.

I did what I always do when that happens.  Nothing.  I just sat there and concentrated on breathing, one breath at a time.  Phillip noticed something was wrong and I told him I just missed my baby.  He nodded, saying nothing.  There really is nothing to say.  We sat there companionably, painfully, breathing together and then we went to bed.

I know people may find it odd that we didn't "talk about it."  It is not that we don't talk about Eddie.  We talk about him all the time, revisiting funny stories and favorite memories.  We even talk about the dark times too, the hospital stays, the fear.  Not often, but we do.  But when it comes down to missing him, words don't help.  There is no breakthrough to be had, no conversation that will bring about an "a-ha" moment so that we never have to feel that ripping, raw yearning again.  Sometimes when I begin to talk about how I feel, to describe the emotions behind it all, I get wild with grief.  Really, quite crazy with it.  And while my loving, supportive husband will hold me through all of that it takes a toll on him.  He kind of goes away mentally for a little while and it sometimes takes me weeks to talk him back.  It's not really worth it.

So we went to sleep.  Baby Boy joined us sometime in the wee hours and so when I awoke at 6:30 it was next to a warm little snuggle bug.  I lay awake, listening to the soft sound of rain against the bedroom window.  I kissed the top of his head (and, yes, if you read the last blog post, took a good big sniff) and decided today was a beautiful day.  Even though my heart was still aching and it seemed nearly impossible to get out of that warm, comfy bed, I knew I could and would keep going.  And so I did.  Slowly, but surely, one breath at a time, I got through my morning routine, getting myself and my little ones ready for a day at preschool.  I kept moving and, by the time my work day began, my heart was still, my mind at peace.

These aren't the easy days.  These are the ones that threaten everything:  my peace, my sobriety, my sanity.  But God walks me right through them.  I'm tired tonight, but it is a good kind of tired.  The kind after you've run a good race and, while your muscles ache, it's a good kind of ache.  The ache of endurance, of accomplishment, of strength.  My grief has softened and melded into something I can talk about, something I can type about.

I will never stop missing Eddie.  I would never want to.  I'm grateful to be sad tonight.  Not angry, not raging, not crazy, just sad.  Just quietly honoring the memory of my baby by missing him and letting myself ache.  I'm probably going to eat some chocolate, but I'm not going to go running to the nearest bar.  And that feels good.  That feels like God, right here with me, holding me up and cradling me in the palm of His hand.      

No comments:

Post a Comment