My Typical Rambling To You…

Tomorrow is two years since you left. I’m not really sure what to make of that. I deal every day with my grief, in one way or another, so I’m actually kind of annoyed that May 16 is a day I feel obligated to grieve. As someone who loves to dig in to her feelings — just like you, and really feel things even when they hurt, it is not like me at all to just wish I could skip tomorrow. I would prefer to wipe that day from the calendar though. Not because it changes the outcome, but because I don’t want to HAVE to think about it.

I always remember all the ups and downs of that day: the exact moment I knew it would be the day you died, or somehow finding the ability to quietly tell you that if you needed to go, it was okay. I am certain you heard me. I think you heard all of us. Walking out of your hospital room for the last time, knowing I would never see you again was the absolute hardest thing I have ever done. Those thoughts and memories all pop up whenever they feel like it. They don’t need their own day. You were always so big about commemorating and honoring anniversaries and important dates, good and bad, but I think even you would appreciate my desire to tell this one to fuck off.

I only saw you grieve your father for two months before you got so desperately sick, and I started grieving you. I did learn a lot in that short time though I think, but not nearly enough. The rest I am figuring out as I go. It feels strange to me that we have the loss of a parent in common. But I can’t talk to you about it, or learn from it with you. We talked about EVERYTHING, and this biggest struggle in my life is the one I can’t look to you to help me through, but the one I have needed you for the most. I worry about the things ahead that I’ll need you for that I’ll navigate without you.

Time was kind of meaningless those first few months. I remember every second of the day you died, and I remember planning your memorial, having it, and how I felt. I remember who was there for us in those days between, every person I talked to after the service was done, and I remember every single word of the eulogy I gave. But when it was all over, when I got in the car to leave the church, it’s like a light burned out. I don’t remember a single thing for two months. It’s just gone.

So time has been a funny thing. I feel like you’re not really gone (I know you’re not, really…but you know what I mean.) I have said many times that if you walked through the front door like nothing had happened, I don’t think I’d even react. We would just fall back into our old lives, and pick up where we left off. Other times it feels like a lifetime since I lost you. I mark time with the things you do and don’t know about. I have those conversations with you in my head where I tell you about the random things going on in the world that I know you’d be interested in. I think about how much the girls have changed. I try to imagine what you’d say about the learning to talk, and learning to read, and the changing in their personalities. I wonder about how they’d be different if they still had you in their lives.

I wonder what you’d think about the person I am turning into now. I know it’s silly, but I worry sometimes that my resilience would hurt your feelings. You told me when you had cancer that if you died, you wanted me to find a way to be okay. That you knew how much it would break my heart to lose you (it made me feel better to know that you knew that about me) but that no matter what, you would want me to do whatever it took to be okay. So I’m doing that.

The hard thing to say out loud is that I actually like who I am becoming. I hate the reason though. I hate knowing that the changes in me, or the times I can help someone else through pain, are all because I lost you. But I do like the person I’ve morphed into, even though she hurts like hell. Grief can make you very introspective, and I have told myself truths I wasn’t willing to before. I have dug into so much of who I was, what I have been through, what I want to change, and what I want to keep. I am more brave than I’ve ever been, even though this stupid anxiety makes me frozen sometimes. I’ve even broken promises I made to you, but I’m just not the person anymore that made them. I think you’d understand that.

I’m never afraid of my ability to survive things, but I fear so much what other painful things wait for me. That’s probably the crux of my anxiety, really. The door has been opened on how much things can hurt, how little control we really have…and that makes me wonder when the other shoe could drop. I think that life has been so tumultuous for so long that I don’t know what to do with the calm now. And things really are calm now. It makes me uneasy. I work really hard to settle in to being settled, but I feel like I’m always looking over my shoulder. I feel constantly braced for the next thing, whatever that may be. I am trying to trust God again and stop thinking I ever knew best.

I’m rambling now to you the way I always did. Like I had to get out every bit of information and every thought and every worry, because they were never quite as true as they were once you knew them. I guess now I’ll figure out what this next year holds. I have no intention of going into it with any expectations. This second year was much harder than I anticipated, so I’d rather go into the third open to whatever comes along.

But even though that initial blow has faded, the hurt is still there. I’m just learning to live alongside it. I feel your absence all of the time. And I only ever miss you more with time. Time doesn’t heal any wounds. That’s kind of a sham. What it does do is give you chances to learn how to live with the wound. It’s part of me now, but that’s okay. Ultimately, this is all going to be okay. And I know that’s what you’d say to me now if you could.

I love you and I miss you very much.



4 thoughts on “My Typical Rambling To You…

  1. Your words inspire me and strengthen me and ring truer than any other that could be written or said. I pray for you every day and will be here for you every day. I love you very, very much.

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