Grief is not a wave… it’s a Ninja.

“A mother never gets over losing her child. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, how old her child was when they died, or the reason they were taken away, grief does not ever expire. Never tell a mother who’s child died to move on, to get over it, or ‘be happy’ that their child is in Heaven now. You are ‘sick’ of hearing about it? She has to live with it every single day.” ~Unknown

I have reached a stage in my grief I cannot explain, it is some weird place between acceptance and anger that flares unexpectedly in the most random of situations. More than that, I have also reached a place where I know my grief is no longer manageable on my own. For those who don’t know me well, this is a huge admission.

I cannot do it alone.

For those who do know me, understand the place I have to come from in order state that to the world, not to mention myself. Denial is a powerful thing.

Here’s the thing, I know that I am grieving, I know that I am going to struggle from day to day – I understand that all of this is ‘normal’. Here’s the thing: nothing about grieving for a child is normal. Not everything can be placed in these pretty little packages. It’s sneaky, it’s a damn ninja.

So, because my grief has gotten beyond my control, my doctor has sent me to a therapist. Which, by the way, is a necessary evil, in and of itself. I really don’t care for talking about my feelings, but I went into it with the hopeful heart that maybe someone could really help me navigate this minefield I am in.

I was disappointed…

First of all, you don’t need a flipping degree to take one look at my life and a moment of hearing my history to know that my life is stressful. I wouldn’t be sitting in a therapist’s office if my life was rainbows and butterflies. Meanwhile, I also don’t expect this to be an excuse for any kind of behavior – which is, apparently, a new concept. Because, apparently, me not blaming my parents or my son’s death for all of my problems in life is a foreign concept.

In addition to that... we described how grief felt, I would say it is like a ninja, cutting me down at the knees when I least expect it. She disagreed, she felt it was more like a wave... sometimes catching you from behind, but you could withstand sometimes. I still disagree... it's a damn ninja that waits in the shadows, waiting for you not to be watching your six. This is a fact.... sneaking ninjas.

And then the kicker came… the one that that made me want to facepalm: “Have you considered Group Therapy?” How do you explain, to a complete stranger, that you attending a group therapy situation would not make yours better? The grief of others frustrates me depending on what comes out of their mouths. “I know how you feel because ________” tends not to bother me. However, if the words “My life is so hard…. ______________” comes out, I want to chuck the chair I’m sitting in at the person. When someone talks about how they’re an addict because of their grief or how hard their life has been makes me want to flip desks.

Everyone has been dealt a hand, some are better than others, but there are certain things that make them better or worse… which lead to the big question: “Have you turned to substance abuse?” “I’m surprised you haven’t… as stressful as your life is.” Like me drinking away my feelings will bring my son back…. Or won’t perpetuate the problems I’m having financially… or help my boys know how to grieve… or help me get up for work in the morning… I’m sure chugging from a bottle is the cure-all for everything!

In the end, this was the diagnosis: she can’t help me. I need to find someone who is better suited to my particular brand of crazy, apparently. I walked in hopeful, walked out sad.

I also hit a curb with my car and cried about it in a Walgreens parking lot like a crazy woman.

I’m not a crazy woman, but the 40 lbs I’ve gained and the frustration I feel seems like it’s straight out a strange romantic comedy book…. Next thing you know I’ll be showing up to work in my bath robe and be confused when HR comes to talk to me.

Perhaps that won’t happen… but I often feel as if it is on the verge… right there on the edge. But, perhaps that isn’t all that strange. I find solace in the crochet I’ve recently been taught how to do, in chatting with friends on my way to and from work when I don’t trust my mind, to listening to music to help move the blues along the way, I write when things just can’t stop leaking from my soul.

Here’s the facts: Life is hard. I don’t want to cook. I don’t want to clean my house. Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting for the other thing to happen…

Here’s more facts: I love my boys. I love my house. I love my dogs. I love my life. It’s hard… but I am not willing to trade anything for another.

I miss my son… but that’s okay. And I need to find a therapist.

Until next time…

The Bereaved Mother

"Do not judge the bereaved mother. She comes in many forms. She is breathing, but she is dying. She may look young, but inside she has become ancient. She smiles, but her heart sobs. She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she I, but she is not, all at once. She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity."

It is a hard journey to put into words what we have done for the last few months. But all of it comes to head, it feels, this week. As sleepless nights become moreso, as fears become irrational, as the torment of the lost slip through our figures into a grief that cannot be tied down.

It is, as always, an unpredictable thing. My grief in relation to my loss of Dominic is never easy to put into words. While I have been fine all other holidays, Easter hit me hard. Perhaps it is because the holiday is about renewal, but in truth there was more to this.

Last year, Easter was the first one with shared custody with my Husband. Being separated with kids is hard, and we had agreed to share holidays. I had Dominic... that was it. I remember being curled around him and promising him, between the two of us I would never let go, that Mommy loved him, that it was our fresh start. Who needed someone who didn't want to be there in the first place?

A few days later... I went into labor. He was my new start. My world seemed brighter, more focused and positive than it had ever been. Though, yes, I still suffered from PPD, it was different than before. I remember pacing non-stop when his father took him for even an hour, impatient and worried. I became the cat who had lost her kitten. 

I have to tell those people who are probably rolling their eyes and waiting for me to "get on with my life.": You don't get over something like this. It doesn't get better. It just puts on a new pair of clothes every day just like I do. Today it is the blazer I wore to work, tomorrow it is the heels I use to make me feel stronger, tomorrow it's the brightly colored fill in the blank.

Here's the truth: it's a process. I wake up fine, and by noon I'm not. I wake up not okay, but by the evening I wonder why it was so hard. But it's silly what's so hard -- cooking dinner, cleaning the house, putting away the laundry. On the outside, I'm so strong and ready for everything, on the inside I'm just tired. So very tired...

How do you explain soul tired to someone? It's not the same as being physically tired. It's like an emptiness that weighs. It gets harder sometimes to carry than anything else in my life. It is a force of nature in and of itself. My life cannot become about the child I lost, I work hard to make sure I focus my attention on the boys who are here instead. On trying to communicate better with my husband. On trying to do good at work and find small achievements every day. On the projects outside.

I'm trying to stay motivated... trying to move forward... but moving forward is also remembering. I miss my son... my arms ache for him. I miss his laughter and his light. But as I said the day of his memorial: It is often the brightest lights that go out first.

April 9, 2015 my son was brought into this world screaming... then growling softly as I nursed him. April 4, 2016... I wish for just one more moment of that scream and cry... if only I could have it.

Until next time...