Fighting

I wish there was a warning system for a grief melt-down, not dissimilar to a tsunami warning system.  At least you could prepare for it when it hits you. You would cancel your daily scheduled 'appearances' in public, you would take shelter and get ready for impact.

Hami at the start of beautiful day

Certainly there are triggers which may be anticipated. Supermarkets for one. One glance at a curly-haired toddler in a trolley and I tend to look skyward to will the tears to stay at bay, at least until I can get out of the darn store.  Sometimes, I may successfully avoid the toddlers (as gorgeous as they are) but just the memory of erratically racing the trolley down the aisles, complete with car noises, to the delight of my chuckling boy (and the dismay of other shoppers) is enough for me to flee.  Sometimes it's the baby aisle and a simple glance at his favourite snack that makes my heart constrict.

I just miss Hamish. I miss him so much I don't know what to do with myself. I know I've said it a million times before (and thank you for listening every time) but I just miss him to my core.  I still crave him like an addict who's gone cold turkey. Every ounce of me screams for him daily and my body is left wanting, my heart is left empty. It's a sentence for life that has only just begun. The hopeless futility of it all beggars belief.

I miss this gorgeous, messy angel

The pure weight of grief is debilitating. My natural instinct is to take the full strain of its fullness and to let it snap me in two but I've discovered I'm a fighter. I never thought I was but I must be. I run, I train, I write. I get up every day, ensure my three beautiful kids are dressed in the right uniform, and have full lunch boxes. I organise their extra-curricular activities, RSVP to birthday parties and keep the household functioning (I said functioning, not clean). I take my 3-year-old swimming and to FitKids and sometimes we cook pancakes when we are at a loss. Simple everyday tasks to keep life's cogs turning. I am a life participant with grief's heavy hands on my shoulders.

When there tsunami hits, there is nowhere to run, no escaping its brutal force. I just have to retreat to my room and let it's desperate sorrow wash over me and let the agony drip down my body. Luckily I am mostly alone when it hits, but sometimes my children bare witness to my overwhelming grief.  As I gasped for breaths through sobbing the other night, my daughter came over and rubbed my back, my son gave me a sticker for being 'a good mummy' and handed me a photo of himself with his sisters to 'make me happy'. There they are again, my 'pin-pricks of light'.

There are more 'pin-pricks' from the unconditional love of friends, family and strangers. When a cooked meal arrives on my doorstep I instantly feel bad. I'm capable of cooking, this meal really should have gone to someone who needs it more than me I think to myself.  Two hours later I'm sitting at my desk sobbing into my hands, grieving for my son, grateful to the inherently beautiful souls who will feed my family that evening. Randomly, my friends have arrived with flowers, cakes or sent me texts or messages letting me know we are not forgotten. I love you all so much. You, through your inherent goodness, give me hope that life is worth living. If not for me, than for my husband, my kids, my family, my friends and readers who will me into every new day.

A particularly arduous shopping trip.

On Saturday night I went to a friend's 40th birthday party. A party! I couldn't believe I was actually going. Not only did my husband and I go but we dressed up in 1920's costume as per instructions on the invitation.  As I glanced at my reflection, I felt a little silly, hardly appropriate kit for a mother in mourning.  Then I thought perhaps Hami would love to see his mummy like this, not sobbing at her desk, pitying her wretched heart.  Perhaps he wants a mummy who is an activist, not a victim. Who takes the bull by the horns and wrestles it to the ground in triumph.

It's about turning the horror into honour and the pain into purpose.

I won't manage it everyday, it's new, raw and exhausting. But I'll give it my damnedest.

Thanks for listening.