Grief doesn’t go away. It doesn’t end. It changes, shifts shape, but it is always my companion. This is true even with the grief I have for my father. He died over 4 years ago. The grief for him is not as heavy, not as all encompassing, but it is certainly still there. And though my dad died younger than he should have, I knew one day I would have to live without him. But knowing that doesn’t change the ache I feel when I’m missing him. It’s just not as oppressive as it used to be.
With Ariella, it’s different. You never expect to outlive your child. My grief for her is still oppressive, and yet this grief has also shifted. The feeling that I cannot possibly survive this has lessened, because I have survived for a year. It’s been devastating and suffocating, but I’m still here. So I know I’ll survive, which somehow makes it worse. Because I don’t want to survive this life. I don’t want to live without her. I still cry at some point every day but there are now small moments in time when she is not my first thought. She is still the first thing I think about when waking up and the last thing I think about before sleep. And the majority of the day is spent missing and wondering and just plain hurting. But it is somehow different. Instead of the constant, nonstop sharp pangs of grief, it is a constant ache accompanied by large waves that threaten to knock me over and drown me. I have gotten use to this pain, to this heaviness, to this always knowing that I will never be complete again. I have not gotten used to these waves that come at me at unexpected moments, set off by the smallest trigger or memory. Though the pain is always there, those sharper waves catch me off guard. They are hard to recover from.
Grief changes a person. Especially with an out of order death. I am not the person I used to be. I was always more serious than silly, but was definitely more carefree. I used to sing at the top of my lungs in the car, dance around the house, play games, joke around. I don’t do those things anymore. I’m not lighthearted anymore. I most definitely am not a fun person anymore. It’s not guilt. I know Ariella would want me to have fun. She would want me to live, to enjoy life, to have experiences. But I just don’t want to. It’s not in me anymore. Fun. I don’t know what that is. I have times that are pleasant. But nothing that I would call fun. There is always something missing. What a complete change from someone who laughed a lot to someone who barely even smiles. Real smiles. Smiles that reach my eyes. Smiles that mean I am actually happy in the moment. Even the moments where I may seem happy, when I laugh, are not real. I don’t know how to explain it, but there is always a part of me that is not engaged. That is held back. The part of me that indicates how I truly feel, how I really am doing, not how I say I am doing. I always had anxiety. But it has gotten so much worse. For me this quarantine has been a blessing because it means I don’t often have to go out, I don’t often have to make small talk, I don’t often have to worry about being sucker punched by a song, a memory, a thought, or anything else. The anxiety, along with the grief, is ever present. Grief is fickle. Some days I don’t care about anything, meaning that nothing really matters. The things people complain about, the everyday worries and activities, etc. None of it matters and I just can’t be bothered to care about the small stuff. And as they say, it’s all small stuff. Other days the smallest annoyance or aggravation can set me off. Spilling something, a stain on my shirt, a delayed delivery of something I ordered. All things that don’t matter when the most important thing is gone, and yet somehow they sometimes matter more. Because why can’t something go right?
I have been at this post for several days now. I just can’t seem to finish it. I can’t seem to find the words. I want to write. I NEED to write. But I think I’ve lost why I started this blog in the first place. There were several reasons but first and foremost it was a way for me to get out my thoughts and feelings, for me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone (mostly still don’t) so my words had nowhere to go but on paper (well on the computer). Even though I wasn’t talking much about my grief I had/have all these feelings that need to get out lest they bubble up inside me and cause an explosion. Secondly, I wanted to have a place where one day I could hopefully look back and see how far I’ve come. Clearly I’m not there yet, I am still in a very dark place but maybe one day, years down the road, this blog can reflect some moments of happiness amidst the sadness and pain. Thirdly, I want this to be a place for other bereaved parents to come to, to realize they are not alone in their grief and in their thoughts and feelings. Maybe one day it will be a source of hope for those newly bereaved parents but right now it’s a way to connect with others that relate. Finally, I wanted to try to explain, to make others understand, what I am going through. I realize that is futile. Words are not sufficient to make others understand. There are no adjectives strong enough to describe the despair and pain and heartache and sadness and heaviness and sorrow and guilt and anger and grief that a bereaved parent experiences. There is no understanding from those who haven’t also lost a child. And I certainly do not want others to have this level of understanding, because that means they too are mourning a dead child. I would not wish this on anyone. But this lack of understanding, though no one’s fault and certainly not for lack of trying to understand (from some), makes being a bereaved parent a very lonely place to be.
I am not sure what I am trying to say here, except that I am forever completely and irreparably changed. Those who are here for me, that want to be here for me, need to understand that. I may go out, join the rest of the world as we slowly come out of quarantine. In fact I have started, with going to outside gym classes. I may even smile, and laugh when I find something funny. But I will not let loose. I will not be carefree. The sadness and pain will be lurking, even if not obviously visible. “Normal” situations feel so very wrong to me. Guilt isn’t the word but it just does not feel right to go about living. To go out with friends. To have dinners with family. It’s like living in a parallel universe or an alternate reality. Like an out of body experience. I am watching myself in those moments, wondering how it can be real. How can this be my life? How can one go on and have normal, everyday moments when their life has been completely destroyed? It seems impossible. I think it is impossible. Because even though I live those moments, I am never fully participating. As painful as every moment is, every day, multiple times a day, I am in utter disbelief that I had a child, my child had cancer, my child died. I still can’t fathom that my perfect world was shattered. That the two things I want most in the world, Ariella and to be a mom, are gone. That I can’t have what I want most no matter how much I try to wish it into existence.
The other day, David and I were driving home during sunset. The colors in the sky were exquisite and the light was just stunning. One of those sunsets where Ariella would have asked us to stop so she could take a picture. I can acknowledge the beauty in this life. But there is so much pain in seeing the beauty because I’m missing the person I most want to share it with. How can so much beauty exist alongside so much pain?