Monday, May 05, 2008


In a daze I spend a portion of the day; hazey daze.
How can my arms ache with emptiness still when I have such a hefty boy to carry around?
How can my hands feel idle when there are noses and butts to be wiped?
Why do my tears fall when they are landing on the fuzzy head beneath my chin?
How can I dream of the boy I do not have, when the one I do sleeps pressed into me, sick and snotty and breathing heavily?
I can't wait for them to go to sleep/watch a video/go to I can be alone to navigate the fog.
(go away so I can mourn my loss, my loneliness and emptiness; go away so I can mourn the child that is not you. It makes no more sense when written than when it is reality.)

The senses are overwhelmed. Everything is just a little too intense. I attribute this to the tsunami-style waves of emotions under which I am constantly ducking. Let it wash over.
One single emotion can rarely come to the surface. They all remain swirling, muddy, inaccessible.

This is not new, this sense of suspension. I am becoming more familiar with it each year.
It is not unlike the original aftermath. The months right after giving up my child to death; after handing over his still warm but lifeless body to a stranger.

Some wise soul said to me that that is how it would be. For a while. The impenetrable fog. There is no way to fight it. So I didn't. I couldn't.
Sitting amidst its swirling confusion, the damp coldness - it was easier that way. If I couldn't navigate through it, perhaps I could sit and wait for a window in which to find my way out.
I still believe this is one way to avoid killing oneself after such a loss. The true impact of such a loss is too much for anyone to process at once. It comes in doses. It comes forever.
This seems cruel, but I have come to accept it (you know, because I have so many choices about that).
The doses come in bolus form at first. Then more of a time-release thing (you never know when it will release though), and eventually I imagine (or I hope) they will come in some more predictable fashion. As they are beginning to now -near his birthday, his death day - I can see that.

So now here I sit, the poster mama for bad parenting, hating myself for wanting everyone to just go away.
Waiting for the fog to clear just a little bit, waiting to go away to the desert and soak in some hotsprings, waiting for Mofo Day to just be over, waiting for 'me' to come back.


Shannon and Carey said...

What can anyone say to those words? I think the best thing to do is for me to not say anything and to listen to your pain and let you know I hear you.
I hear you.
-Shannon in Austin

Anonymous said...

Both of my parents are dead, I am 33 years old. My mother never saw my son or my husband, She never saw the house I live in or met most of the people that I call friend today. Last night, 8 years later I had a dream that she was here and I was young and she decided she didn't want to be my mom anymore and just went away. Eight years and I just now got it, that in my heart my mom abandoned me. Eight years with almost no tears and today I can't stop crying.

mamadaisy said...

from unfathomable pain comes the most beautiful writing.

stay strong. we are thinking of you.

Denise said...

Love you G!
We are here for you!

Anonymous said...

Honey, you aren't a bad mama. A bad mama would beat Bubbles over the head instead of trying their damnedest to work with him and understand him. You're a good mama. It is so totally normal to want them to just GO AWAY- every single parent in the world has that feeling. That doesn't make you a bad mother.

*hugs* from random stranger on the internet.

Cindy said...

You are an ass kicker of a mom, and I'm sure (I hope) somewhere inside yourself you know that. Look at the two awesome kids you've got. Proof enough, no?

A hug to you. You're not sitting there in that fog alone.

Tricia said...

If only you could lay in bed with the covers over your head for a few days...or a week...

Sending peace your way.