Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Act 3, Scene 1: in which I set aside any attempts at eloquence for a few moments and just put some naked truth out there...


BHD wrote this yesterday, in response to my post about Horatio: What others call courage you probably know as simply keeping on with life.

Something as public as a blog sort of forces you to take all the feelings you have inside and sort them through and make them palatable for the rest of the world to read. I suppose there are those who would call that "courageous" or the exercise "therapeutic". And they would, perhaps, be right. But it's only part of the story.

Others have made me aware that there are a few of you out there in Blogland who are reading this because you're trying to process a loss of your own, and you're thinking, "Holy crap! I am five months (or 8 months, or 3 years) out from losing (someone very dear to you) and I'm still a blubbering idiot most of the time. Why am I not moving along like she seems to be?"

I wish I could tell you that I’m 'OK' and 'taking things day by day' and all that – and I guess in reality that’s what I’m doing. But really? I’m pretty effing far from OK. I have exactly 12 functioning brain cells (up from 6 last week, but still) and a hole in my heart the size of Wisconsin. Probably a good thing that I’m too old and fat to join the Army Special Forces, otherwise I’d probably enlist, just on the off chance that I could get myself killed in an honorable way and it'd let me be close to her faster. So don't let the composed exterior fool you.

And I'm going to let you in on another secret: All the books and whatnot say that the 'milestone' days are really hard when you lose a child. And they are. But the thought that the 'milestone days' are the really hard part of all this? In my experience, that’s a big, fat lie. The really tough days? The days that make you really, honestly think that you wish you had the stones to go join the Special Forces or something? That would be just the regular days. The days that don’t require you to do anything. The days when you don’t have a “role” to play. The days when you can't put on someone else's face and pretend that this is all some macabre production number. The days when you just can’t distract yourself from the awful, painful reality of your loss.

Tuesday. Sunday. Laundry day. Those are the tough days. The days when you have to look, search, hope that you'll find some meaning, some purpose to why you and your geriatric cat are both still here when three months ago, you were worried about how she was going to cope with eventually losing you both. That meaning is tough to find. And believe me; I'm looking pretty hard. It sucks. It hurts like hell. Makes me want to sit and blubber like an idiot.

So, blubbering idiots of the world, unite. We are all brothers and sisters in this club that none of us wants to belong to.

Thanks for being here, to give me someone to reach out to. This is helping me. And if you're reading because you're searching, too, I hope it's helping you.


Anonymous said...

People move on because you have to, not because you want to. Bills still need to get paid, laundry still need to be done, food still needs to be eaten, etc. There is nothing wrong with feeling that emptiness in your heart. Just thinking about losing my child makes me cave in.

Anonymous said...

I am here because when I think of you & your family, I know I can find you here.If I were your neighbor, I may be knocking at your door with some fresh baked scones & an ear to listen...but here, in cyberspace the typed word is all I have to reach with.

I just want you to know that I care....


Anonymous said...

Next time someone asks how you are, just say "I'm vertical"...that's enough accomplishment for one day {{{hugs}}}


Lisse said...

I'm not sure that we're ever conscious of moving along or moving on until one day we notice that we haven't thought about a particular loss in... (insert period of time here).

That takes a long time, far, far longer than most people are willing to acknowledge.

I think "milestone days" might be a construct that allows us to attempt to dump our grief somewhere. I'm not sure that it really works that way and certainly not so soon.

It's still "so soon."

BTW, your Horatio post was beautiful.

Anonymous said...

Again Beth thank you. meow

Mississippi Songbird said...

Beanie Baby, bunches of hugs

Alison said...


Michelle said...

I don't think that time truly heals our wounds, Beth, but I do believe that it gives us some measure of distance from the epicenter of the hurt. That's not really right either because we can be neck deep inside the epicenter in the blink of an eye even years down the road but we can survive it. You can survive it. You will.

She would want you to.


p.s. - Horatio the Honkapuss sounds like a lovely character for a children's book. I think you are a wonderful writer. Maybe, one day...

Anonymous said...

As usual, BHD speaks the truth. She is a wise woman.

I've told many people that I am tired of being strong. I wish the things that made me strong had never happened ... but ... no control over that ... so, I *am* strong, but I am not brave.

I think Horatio Honkapuss might actually be able to do JAZZ HANDS! What do you think?

Much love to you, S & H.

Justine's HouseWreck said...

We'll be here, whenever and always...

Ms. Creek said...

I sure wished I could layout my feelings as eloquently as you do.

Anonymous said...

Those that say you will heal are in denial. You will become...immune? Not sure if that would be the correct terminology, comfortably numb maybe.
40 years after losing my brother, I'm forgetting the sound of his voice. The everyday fights. The attaboys he gave me for doing my own mechanics.
I never knew how much it affected my mother until a friend lost her son, a kid I knew and worked with, and now you.
Because of my brother, I have worried about my own kids from the day they were born. And it (that thought) is killing me.
I can never let my guard down.
I hope that the time you need to be at some sense of Peace comes soon.

*Hugs Beanie Beth* and family.