Little Daggers.

November 29, 2010 at 12:02 pm | Posted in Heartbreak | 13 Comments

Like the Disney stickers on the car in front of me this morning. Because Aunt Judy LOVED Disney World. They went every year, with OR without the grandkids.

And I always thought we’d join them there when O got a little older.

I still can’t believe she’s gone.

________________________

Or when the nurse asked me at my annual physical this morning when my last AF was.

And because I know enough to be dangerous, I told her about the chemical pregnancy and that I started bleeding a couple of weeks ago from that.

But that I found out on Saturday that though my levels are NEARLY zero – they’re not quite there yet.

And because I didn’t just say that AF was on 11/17?

My doctor asked me like six times.

So you’re NOT pregnant?

Um. No. And thanks for, you know, making me say it over and over.

I’m not pregnant.

I’m not pregnant.

I’m not pregnant.

________________________

Or when I scanned through the pictures from the year in hopes of finding a couple for our Christmas card.

I found this one instead. Of me and Aunt Judy, this past summer.

And just seeing her there, in a picture, took my breath away and closed my throat with unshed tears.

_____________________

Or like watching O with his little cousin E last week, when my brother and SIL were here. How good he was with her; playing music for her when she was fussy.

Patting her hand softly whenever she was in the swing or the bouncer.

When she was crying in the car, telling her It’s okay, E. We’re going home to O’s house now. Don’t cry, it’s okay.

_____________________

Or seeing my uncle broken, confused, dazed. Telling me that she died in his arms, that he told her it was okay to go home. Then telling me that he didn’t know how he was going to get through the emptiness, the days without her.

And not being able to do anything except hug him and tell him through my tears, Take it one breath at a time. It’s all you can do.

_____________________

Like hearing the people say at the wakes, like it was a blessing, Well, at least she went quickly.

Or hearing people say, She’s with Amy and your grandfather and grandmother now.

And knowing that maybe if you actually, you know, BELIEVED in that kind of stuff you’d probably feel better.

And maybe, if you believed in some grand plan, maybe those gaping holes in your heart wouldn’t feel so raw and bleeding.

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13 Comments »

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  1. I wish I knew what to say, Serenity, but I know that nothing can take away the pain you feel right now. Sending hugs. xo

  2. Hi–I wanted to let you know that I have been thinking about you. I’m so sorry to hear about your Aunt. My grandmother passed away this past summer and it was gutting. The pain never goes away, but you learn to live with it in you. And, smile at the things that remind you of her. Her connection with you is real, tangible, and the only thing that remains between the generations. Take care.

  3. Mel over at stirrup queens just posted something about loss and grief … whether, given the choice, we’d prefer to mourn, or to have the memory of the lost loved one erased. It’s strange … but I think, given the choice, most of us would choose the holes in our heart, because those people who have touched it made us better people, despite the hole they leave when they’re gone, and even if they touched us for the briefest of moments.

    I wish the pain of loss were easier. *hug*

  4. Like hearing the people say at the wakes, like it was a blessing, Well, at least she went quickly.

    Or hearing people say, She’s with Amy and your grandfather and grandmother now.

    And knowing that maybe if you actually, you know, BELIEVED in that kind of stuff you’d probably feel better.

    And maybe, if you believed in some grand plan, maybe those gaping holes in your heart wouldn’t feel so raw and bleeding.

    No. These things are said to make the **person saying them** feel better. Death sucks and is hard, whether it’s fast or slow. “Be glad you had a chance to say good-bye,” would be what you would have heard had it been a slow, lingering death. And even for those of us with faith, it still leaves an ugly, gaping hole — in your life, and in your heart.

    My father died as the result of a car accident, almost 11 years ago. One morning he left to take the car into the shop for some maintenance, and he didn’t come home. No warning, no preparation; just the news that his car flipped over, and he was dead at the scene. It’s been 11 years, and it still hurts. Right now I’m crying typing this, in fact. I don’t think of it a lot, so when I do, it rushes back with fresh pain.

    One of the things that hurt the worst, in that awful first week especially, with everybody there to support us and help us and grieve with us, was that common, constant refrain of, “it was for the best,” and “at least he didn’t suffer,” and all those other things well-meaning people say. Because even if it’s true, IT STILL HURTS to lose someone you love.

  5. This is the part of life that is so, so hard, losing the ones we love and who helped shape who we are and the memories we have. There is simply no more you can do that move through it. Allow all the feelings, the memories, the pain, the anger, the love, the sadness to be what they are. It will be one step forward, two steps back, and maybe even a side step here and there.

    You have a lot bearing down on you at once, so do whatever it is you need to do to survive and be your authentic self in the process.

  6. I’m sorry about all these reminders of loss. I wish I could say in time it will get better and in some ways it will. But I also know that after more than 10 years after the death of my MIL whom I was close to there are still unexpected moments when the reminder of her death is still a punch in the gut.

  7. Oh Serenity wish I could give you a hug. I know a lot of these daggers way too well. All the reminders, the photographs. Take your time, it will get a little easier but it’s still difficult.

  8. Nothing I can say… [[Hugs]]

  9. Death is hard. Losing someone hurts so very deeply and rawly, no matter how it happens, no matter if it was quick and painless for them or if it was a long time to say goodbye. It doesn’t matter. It hurts that they’re gone. And the reminders hurt too. I wish people didn’t feel like they needed to say something to make it feel better. Because the truth is, you can’t make it feel better. No one can. Grief is there, all around, and I wish people could just say, I’m sorry, I’m there for you, it’s okay to feel sad. Because it is. It’s okay to yell and cry and be angry. It does get better, but not for a while. And you have to find your own reasons to feel better, not those that people tell you. It’s a process, and it’s a really hard one.

  10. I guess it is the little things that get you. Maybe because they hit you unexpectedly. I don’t know. I hope everyone is doing ok.

    Bea

  11. Oh, HURT. Is there such a thing as good grief? I don’t know.

  12. sending all the the HUGS I can muster. My heart is hurting with yours.

  13. Oh, I am so sorry! I’m behind on my blog reading and I just found out. I am SO, so incredibly sorry for your loss.

    And you know, I DO believe that stuff about the after life. And eventually, it does help. But the fresh grief? It sucks. It sucks the breath right out of you. I felt that way when my uncle died a few years ago.

    Sending you cyber hugs and my deepest sympathies.


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