Just on the other side…

 

Mornings are bleary.

Nights hurt like hell.

The in-between is lack luster.

Something is most definitely missing.

Being forced into the grieving world, one I’ve never been in like this before, is like being pushed into a pool during a Vermont winter’s night.

It stings. It shocks. It numbs.

Even though I know how to dog paddle, swim, and even breast-stroke,  I can’t quite get to other side. Through the flaying arms of grief, through trying to float on my back, through the tears of fear, I need a life-saver.

There are these moments– sometimes, they’re only 30 seconds… sometimes, they’re 30 minutes… but not much more– these moments quickly go by where I’m brushing my teeth, I’m working out, grocery shopping, working on edits, and in the midst of the moment, I forget I’m grieving. Life has happened.

When I smile, or laugh, is when I pop out of it, and realize I’m feeling not sad. I question the happiness.

There are moments I cave, begin to cry again, and fall back in the pool.

Then, sometimes, there’s a nudge… a twist of the shoulder.

Amy, go with it. I want you to laugh. I want you to smile.

And, I do…  Example:

Just the other day, I responded to a text about what Chris and I are doing for Fourth of July. Normally, it’d seem like a boring, neutral text, right? Well, not so much with Maeghan. Before I know it, we’re sending voice texts back and forth of nothing but laughter. I laughed until I cried and none of the tears were from sadness.

Laughs are the tiny cracks in grief. They allow for breath, reprieve from the fog, a quick lesson in life, which is, life has to continue.

Mom has been so close by. She’s been just beyond the veil of life… so close, I feel like I can touch her. I know I’ve felt her hug me. I know I’ve felt the brush of her fingers on my arm. I know she’s been there to pull me out of a hard cry when I’m gasping for air.

From just beyond… on the other side, a slight whisp of air touches my ear. No, not literally, but almost… almost.

It’s so clear, I hear…

Breathe, Amy. Breathe. I’m here. Just breathe.

When I’m floundering in the pool of grief, Mom throws me a life saver.

I choose to believe she has a lifetime supply of those touches and whispers. I know I’ll need them for as long as I live.

Yes, for now, in this early phase of grief, I’ll need a lot.

As time goes, I’ll need fewer.

Then, BAM, it’ll all creep back, and I’ll end up in the pool again.

She’ll be there.

The funny thing about the pool and lifesaver analogy is… Mom wasn’t a fan of water or swimming. She hardly ever got in the deep end of the pool.

Thankfully, she was great at life, and being a mom. She can be my lifeguard from the other side any day. Whether she quietly brushes by, or takes hold, and shakes me, I’ll welcome her.

I’ll ride freely through the ups and downs. I’ll feel the sadness. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Cry again. But, no matter what, I won’t stop riding.

Until next time…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 Comments

Filed under May 2016

3 responses to “Just on the other side…

  1. Kerrie

    You said that so well. I lost my mom suddenly too and there is no way to describe the pain you feel. It has been 7 months and it’s still very very hard to make it through the day with out crying.

  2. Elaine LeDoux

    Amy, how beautifully you put your feelings into words. When you smile your mother smiles. When you laugh your mother laughs. Those little reminders from her will always be with you…to help you move forward and embrace that which is beautiful and joyous. My dad passed away in 1990 and my mom in 2016 and I must tell you that not a day goes by that I do not think of them. But the thoughts are rarely sad anymore…they are much more about the happy moments I had with them growing up. You will get there too.

  3. You, Trent and I know the analogy well. I believe Chris and Kirsten know it also just from seeing it in our lives. One of her last sentences was “I feel like I’m drowning”—then they cleared her lungs. Her life was special because she was our life. I get those special brisks of air also. Seems sometimes it’s expanding my lungs so I can breathe. So I can clear my thoughts, I saw 9:03 click on the clock last night. I didn’t mention it to the person I was talking to who has been helping me with the process of grieving. I knew it was going to rain yesterday. There’s a special lady we all know keeping an eye on us from above. During these times I simply say… I Love You Hotshot!

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