Not Okay

Hey Aaron,

I don't know...

I'm treading water and hoping I don't go under.  Your angelversary is past. It's (slowly) getting lighter. We're not to February yet where I go through the memories of learning you were coming with something "extra." 

Maybe it's that I'm remembering giving all of your equipment away. Sending that on made sense. But it was also so much a part of you. 

I know you're okay, better than okay. 

But I'm not. 

I go to work, I talk to people, I volunteer at church and at the hospital. When people ask, "How are you?" or "How's it going?" I reply, "Good!" "Fine!" 

I lie. 

But really, those are just niceties, expected greetings and responses. How do I tell them I'm drowning inside? The colors are muted and all I want to do is stay in bed with the covers over my head?

Sometimes, all my energy goes into just trying to survive. And the tears roll down my face.

It's Friday again, Friday into Saturday, over and over and over again. 108 times. 107 times since I last touched your hair, kissed your cheek, covered you with your weighted blanket and tucked Scout in next to you.

I'm not okay.

I'm back to getting out of bed 45 minutes before I have to be at work, and it's a 20-25 minute commute, plus time to unlock and organize files. 

I try to write in my gratitude journal, and I do have So Much to be grateful for. But gratitude isn't a panacea for grief. It doesn't wipe out the pain.

I dreamed about you the other night. It was kinda funny. You pulled yourself to a standing position in a crib, something you never actually did in this life. And then you tumbled over the side (on purpose) and I was so worried about you pulling out your g-tube! As I caught you, you laughed at me. Oh, I miss your smile, your laugh. 

I just miss you.

Love,
Mama

“Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical, and spiritual necessity—the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.”

Rabbi Earl Grollman