I wish I came here more often.
This is the place that feels oddly safe from judgment or writer's remorse. I mean, no one reads these things after all. I simply type it out of my head and body and hit publish to not be seen or heard from, and YET feel like I shared.
I am presently amid a 2-day grief reminder. I should have predicted it, anticipated it, or made room, BUT alas, tis' how these things go. It's like jumping carefree on a trampoline only to bounce off and hit the ground with the wind knocked out of you. All you can do it hold on till the air fills your lungs back up.
Five:
June 29th marks 5 years ago when my Brother-in-law took his life. He had cancer. I remember like it was yesterday the barely legible words my husband cried through the phone (as he was at the fire station and on duty), the frantic calls to my other brother-in-law to no avail. The drive to their house at 3am, knocking on the door, and the way he fell to the floor when I uttered the words. Almost as if it was this moment, the mostly quiet drive to pick up my husband, and then the trip to break the news to my Father-in-law. I can see it all. The heaviness as we arrived at my sister-in-law's home, and she sat immobile on the couch.
Four:
This coming September will be the 4th year without my son. He, too, was dying from undiagnosed Hepatitis affecting all his organs. I fought for him at doctor after doctor, but clueless to his own demise, he acted like I was being overzealous and he was fine. He took his own life that fateful day, not because he was suicidal, but because he was in such intense pain, the coroner said he didn't even know how he was walking. I won't recount for you the experience of finding him, calling 911, telling my mother, the above-mentioned Brother-in-law, lying to my husband and kids to get them to come home without explaining why. The millions of people I was forced to text, and notify each with their own horror if living their reactions to the news. I am grateful it was me rather than any of them to carry such extensive trauma, but then again, I wish it wasn't any of us. 65% of people have experienced the death of a child by the time they are 60. I am not sure the numbers for your 40s. 11.8% have lost a sibling, but only 6.2% of people did so before they were 24.
Three:
This December marks the 3rd year without my Uncle Steve, who also had cancer, had surgery, then it returned, and he took his life. The cycle repeats. All of these deaths we understand, but it doesn't stop the scars. I was by her side the evening of his loss and for the following week after. I know what grief all too well, and it felt good to be of service, not to mention a shield from all those well-meaning people in the initial days. From that point forward, E and I spend every Thursday having dinner and enjoying each other's company. It is the only death something good thing that has come of it.
One:
One year ago, July 4th, marks the final day of my Father-in-love being coherent and with us. We knew his impending death and were able to be with him all day. He told stories, said goodbyes, and so much more. It was beautiful. His transition overnight wasn't pretty, and my Brother-in-law, again above mentioned, bears the weight of that. As a gift of solidarity, I took the overnight shift while everyone else slept. The sister-in-law who lost her husband was with me all but the last few hours. When he was breathing only 3 breaths a minute, I woke the boys and his wife up to be with him for his final breath. It took 35 minutes. The flurry of reality instead of the united togetherness whisked in, and just like that, it was July 6th. His wife's and my oldest son's birthday. Seared in my visual brain are those two things. Though it is the only acceptable death of them all. It came from 94 long years of a well-lived life.
One:
Finally, it is approaching the 1 year mark for my cousin to have lost her only child. She was nonverbal, and it was unexpected, with no clear cause still determined. I had a ringside seat to this moment, but not an emotional one. One of empathy for her transition into this Grief Club.
Yep, last night as I sat boating with my daughter's boyfriend's family, it all came rushing back. This heavy reminder of the experiences I carry. But more than that, the fact that no one knows I do. I mean, sure, people are like, there's Elizabeth, she lost her son. But loss is so much more than a moment. It is a lifetime of memories, days of reminders, and trauma. It is a shared heartbeat with the child who was in my womb. It is the pain my husband and his sisters carry with them. It is mostly the unspoken in my home that I loathe. The independent grieving of a family torn apart. Just when I think we will be o.k. I am reminded.
Grief is a heavy burden, I pray no one has to bear till they are good and old.
