Remedy

Today I feel weary. The oppressive heat that swamps and swarms probably isn’t helping. I glanced in the mirror and the reflection looked grief-stricken. New lines, sunken eyes and under stretched mouth.

I was told me the other night that I’m doing well under the circumstances. I immediately bristled. It’s something you don’t want to think you are...‘well’.  It sounds too perky, too normal.  I certainly don’t feel well (or any other synonym you may use). I feel messed up, broken, confused.  Grief isn’t a phase or a period. It isn’t a season or a song. It is forever and the enormity of it is exhausting. Utterly exhausting.

So the question I already have the answer to is, how do I do it?  Of course the response is, “One day at a time”.  I don’t like the solution. It’s too simple, and it bewilders me that such a complex, painful, debilitating condition of grief can be simplified into this one statement.  

My heart aches. Since Hamish turned two on Tuesday, I can’t get a grip. My husband and I spent the day, our last day in Queenstown, New Zealand, with tears cyclically running down our faces. The beautiful day that would’ve been. TWO. Excited giggles, cake, balloons, Happy Birthday merrily sung by three excited siblings, two proud parents and happy extended family. Oh, the joy of the day lost makes my heart burn, my chest heave. I read on Facebook, complaints about a two-year-old’s behaviour. Please. Give me supermarket melt-downs, give me screaming lungs, give me big, loud, shouty NOs. I would do anything for them.

I’ve been on a quest to learn every single detail about where Hamish is. I wish I could be content with very generic statements like, “He is in God’s arms” or “He’s playing in Heaven” but I am not. I am his mother. I need to know where he is. What is he doing? Who is he with?  Is he happy?  Does he miss me? I’ve read books on afterlife, NDEs, Heaven and Spirit. I’ve googled, I’ve flicked, in my quest to feel at peace.  But every account is different; the descriptions varying greatly. I feel confused, lost. So I’ve decided to stop. To have faith in love beyond the veil. That he is the circle of God’s love and give my frazzled mind a small break.

So today I feel depleted. Spent of love, of energy, of life. From the outside, I am living my life, not languishing.  I am attending to my husband’s business, I am caring for my children, I am mixing with friends but it all feels like a charade. I’ve decided I’m getting good at masks. They crack inevitably, but for the most part I’m keeping it together for the general public. At home, my husband and I circle the house like lost puppies. Not sure where we should be, how should we act or what we should feel. It’s all very Woody Allen.

School goes back in just over a week. As my children go back to the routine of school and Kindy, I will have three days to myself to do house and business chores, to write and to be. I’m concerned though. I’m worried the silence will threaten to consume me and draw me further into the dark cloud of grief. Will the silence of Hami’s giggles be more pronounced and despairing? Will I become embittered, frightened, lonely? From a practical perspective, I think I have enough people around me who care to pull me out of the abyss. I don’t think I’ll be left in the dark chasm for too long. I hope.

Intense and prolonged pain does tend to mess with your head. I’m off to the psychiatrist again tomorrow. I like my Doctor a lot. He speaks to me intelligently, with reason, science, and comfort. There is no wrong, guilt or blame with him. There is only reason. I walk out realising I create the crazy, the crazy doesn’t create me. It’s strange but I’m looking forward to seeing him (it used to be the hairdresser). I’m desperately sick with grief. I think the remedy is calm, peace. Maybe he has it on prescription?

One can only dream.

Thanks for listening.