These leaves, this fog, my tears — you do not see them.
The soft push of air out my nose, a cardinal chipping at the morning, the crunch of gravel when I get up and walk back into another day without you— you do not hear.
You do not see. You do not hear.
Cars passing, sports commentary, “Can I have another cup of coffee?” — these sounds belong to the land of the living where you no longer dwell.
You no longer dwell. You are no longer.
Yesterday marked three months.
My phone taunted me.
My heart broke (again).
“We can’t hide from grief. Grief is always in control!” I found this comment this morning ,on Liz’s blog, her sidebar lists a blog from Harriet Vogel, a bereavement coordinator.
I’ve sat with this for a while and I think about the numbers on a calendar. For you Dee, it is the # 16, for me, it is the # 24.. It has not yet been a month for me but I can feel tears pooling behind my eyeballs, in readiness for a deluge on June 24th. I really don’t like to think of grief as always being in control but it is too early for me to consider that this is not true. What I think about a lot is that our grief takes on many levels and over time, eases itself into something that is manageable albeit always present. I want to feel, even today, that it is perfectly ok for me to break out in one of my silly spontaneous dances, to sprinkle joy in my day and not feel that this is disrespectful to the grief that I wear…yes I am cloaked in grief, at this time, but it is not the only thing I wear, it is not the only descriptor of me.
You make a good point about how joy and grief coexist.
Also it is so so early for you. Even with the years of preparing for Rich’s exit, it is early.
I am heartbroken, too, for you. But always I am astonished at the beautiful and varied ways you honor Danny with your words.
Thank you Ellen. I thought I’d turned comments off but I’m glad I didn’t.
I wrote it on my calendar: Danny suicide.
I didn’t want to forget the date knowing it would be forever in the minds of his mother and father and no doubt his brother, his uncles, his cousins, his aunts, his friends, his acquaintances and those with whom he had lost touch but heard about it and were shocked. And more. Even saying this feels voyeuristic and yet who Dee do you have to mourn with? No one is mourning as you are not even Ken which is not to say he is mourning less but I’m guessing differently. Hard to say what is the deepest, the most frequent, the hardest, the most constant but I know for sure those states are yours and more. I want to say may it all lessen but that’s not true to what is. Just know I think often of what you must be experiencing.
Doris those who walk with me in grief are shining stars in this new firmament I live under. I thank you for that.
Doris, what a wonderful acknowledgment on your calendar. Sixteen years on and people have forgotten the date of his death and his birthday, well to acknowledge them with me anyway. Some used to. It hurts. It will be a beautiful thing for Dee to receive support on both of those days, every year. It can be as simple as a short text message, just something. She is blessed to have people like you xx
Danny also made things — simpler? — by killing himself on his birthday.
Oh, Dee, yes, I forgot that important detail in my day of self. I am sorry. Maybe Danny has spared you in his timing. Would it be easier if Paul had taken his life on his birthday instead of another month. I don’t know. Or will it be harder for you because Danny chose his birthday. Details, and do they matter I ask myself, when we have to live with such loss. xx
No apology needed. Seriously. I’m glad to know your son’s name. Paul. I’m not sure I’d heard it before. Thank you for sharing your sadness here.
I wanted to know about the trees I should Not have in my yeard- I bet myself I have them ‘all
now I’m crying…
Hi Jude
Dee~ “You do not see them”…such a good reminder of how we may not know what others are going through. I’m thinking that you are creating your own grief group here, as everyone circles around to support you, we support one another and learn such valuable life lessons.
We gather together here.
Much love.
People are showing up in ways both helpful and remarkable.
I am sitting on a train, returning home from a night out in the city with my husband. Never a good time for him to organise anything around today but he did and I forgive him for loving the international performer Chris Botti and fitting into his dates, not mine. I was short with him and in tears as we left for the concert. Short again this morning when the first things uttered were, shall we sing him happy birthday and addressed him by a nickname I would never use although one his friends affectionately used. Since when have I ever sung him happy birthday since his death? Since when have I used a nickname? He tries and I can acknowledge that. He is not my son’s father but he understands loss, having lost his first wife to cancer. All that aside, it was a good concert considering my mood and a tenor voice of extraordinary strength and wonder.
My beautiful one, he would have been 44 years old today and my loss is 16 years old. Grief, whoa dear grief. Ever present. Forever wrapped in that really shitty blanket in which no parent wants to embrace their soul. And therapy, more therapy but this type just might work on the trauma.
You are brave dear Dee; sharing your journey. I understand it, everything, and more. Tears, forever tears, so close and peek out when they choose.
Take care, one step at a time.
I’m so sorry Linda. Thanks for opening up like this and sharing your grief.
It is my personal belief, long held, that there is an existence beyond this life that we cannot comprehend until we get there … Liz A
I hope you’re right.
Please know that I come here, read, and say out loud, “Oh, Dee…” and, “Danny…,“ and send love.
Thank you Hazel.