There are days when I just want to throw myself down on the floor and howl with the agony that is in my heart; when the world hurts too much to bear. When all of the pain of all the things I see and hear and do and live pile on and refuse to let go, I just want to lay down and give in.
Today is one of those days. I can’t make sense of this. It is as unfathomable to me as losing Izzy. How can this wonderful, funny, kind, loving man be gone. He woke up this morning, said goodbye to his wife and children, probably laughed at something one of them was doing, and then went to work. The last thing he said to any of them was the last thing he’ll ever say to them. He’s gone. Just gone.
Now feed me some bullshit about how he’ll live in their hearts and memories forever. Bullshit. You can’t hug a memory. You can’t hear the laugh of a memory. You can’t lay in bed at night and share funny kid stories with a memory. The person who shares the memory of your children’s birth and their conception and their firsts, is gone. The person you built your life, your family with gone, all at once.
My heart is broken for my friend. I sent her a lame message on facebook because that’s what you do. I will go to the visitation. I will go to the funeral. I will hug her and the kids and I will cry and I’ll say the same lame words that everyone will. If you need anything, let us know, please. You are all in our prayers. And it’s true; I mean it with my whole heart. But they won’t make her feel better. They won’t make her kids feel better. Nothing will. There are some losses you never get over. Ever. The pain never goes away. You just learn to live with it. It becomes part of your life that is always there, always present.
I have done this before. I remember vividly the path of grief I traveled with Izzy. I remember lying on the floor in the basement on a pile of her dirty laundry trying to smell her. I remember looking at her picture in the frame on the wall and wanting to throw it because it would never change. I won’t be adding 1 year or 2 year or kindergarten pictures to that frame. I remember months after she was gone, lying on the floor in her room with the door closed, sobbing because I missed her. I would do it in my friend’s place in a nanosecond. My heart is already scarred and broken. I know that she will do this for her children, she won’t get lost, and she won’t disappear into the currents of her grief. God I wish I could save her from this.
But I can’t. I am sure that when Izzy died and I was trying hard not to get swept away that there was more than one person that wished they could save me. I know that there were many friends and family who showed up and said the words, and gave me hugs and gave me paper products, and fed us, and they were my anchor and they helped me tread water. The kids were my anchor. Maddy and Abbey gave me a reason to stay. Without them, I wouldn’t have made it. My friend has her anchors and I’ll be there every minute I can helping her tread water.
Today is one of those days. I can’t make sense of this. It is as unfathomable to me as losing Izzy. How can this wonderful, funny, kind, loving man be gone. He woke up this morning, said goodbye to his wife and children, probably laughed at something one of them was doing, and then went to work. The last thing he said to any of them was the last thing he’ll ever say to them. He’s gone. Just gone.
Now feed me some bullshit about how he’ll live in their hearts and memories forever. Bullshit. You can’t hug a memory. You can’t hear the laugh of a memory. You can’t lay in bed at night and share funny kid stories with a memory. The person who shares the memory of your children’s birth and their conception and their firsts, is gone. The person you built your life, your family with gone, all at once.
My heart is broken for my friend. I sent her a lame message on facebook because that’s what you do. I will go to the visitation. I will go to the funeral. I will hug her and the kids and I will cry and I’ll say the same lame words that everyone will. If you need anything, let us know, please. You are all in our prayers. And it’s true; I mean it with my whole heart. But they won’t make her feel better. They won’t make her kids feel better. Nothing will. There are some losses you never get over. Ever. The pain never goes away. You just learn to live with it. It becomes part of your life that is always there, always present.
I have done this before. I remember vividly the path of grief I traveled with Izzy. I remember lying on the floor in the basement on a pile of her dirty laundry trying to smell her. I remember looking at her picture in the frame on the wall and wanting to throw it because it would never change. I won’t be adding 1 year or 2 year or kindergarten pictures to that frame. I remember months after she was gone, lying on the floor in her room with the door closed, sobbing because I missed her. I would do it in my friend’s place in a nanosecond. My heart is already scarred and broken. I know that she will do this for her children, she won’t get lost, and she won’t disappear into the currents of her grief. God I wish I could save her from this.
But I can’t. I am sure that when Izzy died and I was trying hard not to get swept away that there was more than one person that wished they could save me. I know that there were many friends and family who showed up and said the words, and gave me hugs and gave me paper products, and fed us, and they were my anchor and they helped me tread water. The kids were my anchor. Maddy and Abbey gave me a reason to stay. Without them, I wouldn’t have made it. My friend has her anchors and I’ll be there every minute I can helping her tread water.
Beautiful words... You hit it head on my friend. Love to you and Angie who know all too well the pain of losing your heart. <3
ReplyDeleteKerri