Acceptance

Acceptance… one in a long list of words and phrases that I loathe. The very idea that I would ever accept my beloved Damon’s death is just offensive. My son was ripped from me, torn suddenly and violently without warning, without reason. I will NOT accept that. When the word tumbles from the mouths of therapists and well wishers I bristle and the wolf replaces the dog. I. HATE. That. Word.

The very idea that grief could be predictable could be explained or boxed or packaged is infuriating and sickening. My life after the death of my baby is as unique as my relationship was with him. Every individual, special, only one of a kind intricacy of our love is reflected and played back in grief. No one will ever grieve like me and I will never grieve like anyone else. I’m not supposed to.

Today I cried while I pumped gas. If there is any version of ‘acceptance’ that makes any sense to me at all this is it. Today the fog surrounds me. Its heavy and its hard for me to breathe. The weight of missing Damon, of aching for him drags at my chest where the gargantuan Damon shaped hole will always remain. Always.

This is acceptance. The acceptance is the dragging myself up underneath the unbearable pain and simply bearing it. The acceptance is knowing that no one understands and no one ever will. The acceptance is knowing that every day, every moment from now until death I will ache for him, always and putting one foot in front of the other even when I have no idea why.

It isn’t  a happy ‘ending’ but there is nothing in me that believes the pain will ever lessen, the missing will ever subside. I don’t even know if I would want them to. Instead I grow accustomed to them. I compensate with other muscles and learn to function in the middle of the screaming in my head that says ‘curl up and die!’ Because there are still those beautiful amazing people whose feet trod this soil. Something worth fighting for. I accept the battle that is the rest of my life.