As the months go on since my Dad’s death, my grief gets deeper and more insistent. Grief for my Mom has overwhelmed me for years, and with my Dad’s death I feel like I have no one left to talk to. There’s something about the way you can talk to your parents that just doesn’t transfer over to anyone else. It’s a selfish type of talking – knowing that your parents will listen and support you in whatever you say, knowing that they will have your back and will be there for you no matter what. At least, that is what I had with my parents, and when it was ripped away so suddenly with my Dad, and so slowly with my Mom, I found myself floundering and drowning in anger and sadness. I was in no way ready to lose them, at their age it just seems cruel. They are only both 75, though Dad would have been 76 now. I prayed for years that they would be around a long, long time. I know that my plan is not always God’s plan but still I find myself angry all the time.
I did not plan to raise this child, my Baby Girl, without them. I did not anticipate that I would have to. I assumed they would be there, rejoicing with me, and groaning with me, and celebrating each milestone and achievement. I imagined stories told of when I was young, comparing her attitudes and personality to mine. I imagined Mom just laughing and saying “let me have her for awhile, you need a break.” I imagined Dad with his Fu Fu wrapped around his little finger, letting her get away with murder and yet demanding his respect at the same time. I imagined her growing up with them so close, so much a part of her life. I can still see all that, in my mind’s eye. I am wild with anger that it won’t be so.
I am angry that I have to face this world alone. I cried tonight over Uvalde. How can I raise my Baby Girl, how can I be happy in a world where such evil exists? I am grateful that they don’t know what happened today. I am gutted with grief for the parents that have learned today that their child isn’t coming home. And then I think to myself, how do I deserve to be unhappy? I should not feel this anger and pain – these parents today have it so much worse than I do. I was loved. I was cherished. My parents were loved and cherished. They did not die when I was a child, I did not die when I was a child. I don’t deserve to be this upset. There are so many in the world that have it worse than I do.
Even before today, before Uvalde, I have thought that I am not worthy of the pain I feel. I try to hide it. I talk to people every day with a smile on my face, with my feelings deeply buried. I am tired, I’ll admit that. I take naps – I try to hide from the grief. In sleep I can escape the pain. In my dreams I see my Mom, sometimes without dementia but 99% of the time she is somewhere along the path of Alzheimer’s. I never dream of my Dad. Not once. I wish I would. When I’m awake I eat to fill the empty space – I try to make myself be healthy but I am fighting a losing battle right now. My grief is so overwhelming that I feel like I can’t control what I eat. I am too busy trying to make it through the day without taking my anger out on my husband or my daughter. Wine numbs the pain, both physical and emotional. I never get drunk but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t help, and offer comfort in a time when I will take any type of comfort I can get.
The other night I was sitting in Baby Girl’s room while she was trying to fall asleep. I was sitting and singing to her, after she had had a hard day. I have to resort to the only songs I know all the words to – Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Rock A Bye Baby, Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, Jingle Bells, and finally, Amazing Grace. As I sing I think about her pain, and I wonder how I can ever help her if I can’t even help myself. But then I think, maybe this is what she’ll remember. Maybe she’ll remember how hard I tried. That I was willing to sit with her in the dark until she softly whispers “I’m ok now.” Maybe she will remember how much I love her, so much so that I kill myself trying not to show her how sad I am. I know sometimes I fail. She sees me cry. She wrote me a note once that said “You are the best Mom I ever know. When you cry my heart breaks.” And I want to tell her ditto, Baby Girl, ditto. She exudes love and empathy and caring and self-resilience. I think she’ll be ok in spite of me.
With God’s help maybe I’ll be ok in spite of me, too. In time maybe there will be true happiness again. With wine, good friends, good clients, a loving husband and a child that needs me, maybe one day I’ll look back on this time and think “Wow, I am sure grateful I made it through.” I pray for this. I pray for peace in my heart. I pray for joy. I pray for a life that I think is worth living. I am not worried about Heaven, I am worried about here, now, my earthly time. For all of you who are struggling with something – with grief and pain and unbearable sadness – I pray for you, too. I pray for rainbows.
