Burn

I don’t think the agony of grief is ever “less” or “more,” “better” or “worse.” People very much want it to be better. They want to believe that the pain lessens. Some of that desire is for me but a lot of it is for them. It’s horrible to face the reality that someone you care about will never ever spend another moment purely happy. No one wants to believe that, but it’s true.

At Damon’s funeral I clung to another mother who many years ago had her daughter torn from her life. I moaned “Will it ever get better? Does it get better?” I was desperate. She didn’t answer. It’s very possible that she didn’t hear me and entirely likely that my words were just guttural noises of pain but even if she heard it wouldn’t surprise me, now that I am over a year out, if she just didn’t answer.

How would you tell a newly bereaved parent no?

What would I say?

Some of my favorite days are when Will and I spend the afternoon lazing in bed. Raz dozes on my chest while I read and his daddy plays a video game. Our bedroom is one of the brightest rooms in the house and the sunlight lightens my heart. It’s peaceful and there is a large measure of happiness and contentment here but there is still intense, profound pain. Always.

Rather than less or more I would say the pain is a slow deep burn or a shallow raging flame. Neither is easier, just different. The shallow flame is so much easier to see. I’m sure it seems worse but in some ways when the pain and anger a raging out of control it’s easier. When the tears come until there are none left there is a moment of release, of emptiness, of honesty. The deep burn is like an ulcer of agony living in my soul. Sometimes I get to the end of the day and stare at myself, astonished. Now, some of my worst days no one would know. I just keep going. I converse. I function. I move… and I burn.

Until next time…