echo

Reality check a day 353, grief still hurts.
On Sunday I attended my nieces' 5th birthday party.  The reality of Chris' brother and best friend without him in their presence is still a stark reality.  As I sat helping the babies decorate cupcakes the song Over the Rainbow by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole came on in the cupcake shop.  This song played several times as people got up from Chris' memorial service.  It's in moments like those that I smile and say hello to Chris.  I'm not sure they are signs of anything but they are moments in which I can smile and remember Chris.  Subsequently, my neices' birthday party was one of the last events Chris attended.  In my heart, it's one of the events in the count down to Chris' death.

Two days later I s on my way to plan a baby shower I heard the song The End by Pearl Jam and ... there I was with hot tears running down my face at the off ramp.  I could swear I can hear my heart crack when I hear the line "How it pains me to leave me here with the kids on your own."  Chris would never have left had there been a choice.  He would not have wanted his children to question his absence or feel the pain of not knowing him.

That night I opened a book on grief that I had set aside months ago and this quote struck me...
"Real grief is not healed by time.  If time does anything, it deepens our grief.  The longer we live, the more fully we become aware of who he was for us, and the more intimately we experience what his love meant for us.  Real, deep love is, as you know, very unobtrusive, seemingly easy and obvious and so present that we take it for granted.  Therefore, it is often only in retrospect - or better, in memory- that we fully realize its power and depths.  Yes, indeed, love often makes itself visible in pain." Henri Nouwen.

Not a day goes by when I don't often think of Chris.  Usually with a fond memory, a smile.  Sometimes with a tear at something he has missed in the lives of his children.  The pain, though it's strength varies, is still palpable. 

It's been quite awhile since I have had a truly terrible day but this week it started with Tuesday and it was then that I knew it was coming.  The exhaustion of grief.  In my life it has often manifested itself as exhaustion, the kind where you can barely open your eyes.  Wednesday arrived with my body moving at an inept speed and my mind unable to shake the cobwebs of the past. 

This morning I was drying off after my shower and looked down at the floor of the bath tub as my mind went to the question, what was his last breath like? 

Really, I just want to know if he was scared or willing me to come help him.  There is not only an amazing amount of pain but also guilt in the death of another, at least for me, know Chris was dying only 20 feet from where I sat. 

So here I am at the cusp of the one year anniversary and as it is with children, our routines are very similar despite the unrecognizable format of my life. 

I struggled to live through the 9 o'clock hour for weeks after Chris' death followed by my detest of Wednesdays then my dislike of the 17th.  So what is it now?  Right now I dislike my brain's ability to replay a month's worth of events, to feel the emotions of that day so clearly, to hear the conversations from that morning echo through the chambers of my mind.

What will you be doing on November 17th at 9:30 a.m.?  Yeah, I'm not sure either.