Life goes on

We have received so much love and support from family, friends, and the community that I feel guilty writing this.  However, I told myself that in order to heal I am going to be honest, and face and grow from the feelings I have. 

The life goes on part is really tough.  I get calls from very loving people who ask how I am doing.  How am I doing?  My daughter is dead.  After the initial pleasantries and my recovery from the rush of hot tears overcoming my face, I have to come to terms that life goes on.  My most recent conversation was a tough 18 minute 58 second talk listening to them speak about the weather, shoveling their driveway, and I don’t have any idea what else.  I know people have their own lives, of course they do.  Life doesn’t stop because of my tragedy.  Learning how to reintegrate into society and have a (what now seems meaningless) conversation is just part of the process.  My daughter died two weeks ago and I have to talk/listen for 18 minutes about the weather.  I get it, I do.  It’s just hard.  I’m just not there yet.  The tragedy that has overtaken my life is just a thought passing in someone else’s head and then they go on to talk about the weather. 

But, how do you talk to someone who is grieving?  Everyone handles it differently.  People don’t know what to say.  The person today talked about the weather…for 18 minutes.  Other people try to say something funny.  It all comes from the goodness of their hearts and I am so thankful for their kindness.  For me, silence is ok.  Just an ear.  Just someone to cry with.  I know life goes on, but I’m just not there yet.

The two phrases that are the hardest for me are “How are you” and “I can’t even imagine.”  The “How are you” is obvious.  My beloved baby died, I am grieving and I am deeply sad.  Of course the social norms prohibit me from saying this response.  Instead, I say a socially acceptable “I’m ok” or “I’m hanging in there.”  Maybe one day I’ll say how I really feel, I don’t know.  The “I can’t even imagine,” rattles me each time.  I get angry that this grief feels so isolating.  I can’t even tell you how I have yearned for a friend to come forward and tell me the same thing has happened to her.  To one end, I am happy this hasn’t happened – thank goodness no one I know has had to go through this terror.  On the other end, I feel alone.  I yearn for someone to hug me and say, I know how you feel.