Saturday, August 22, 2009

August 19 -21. Grief...Again, Kids and A New Husband

November, 2008
I remember now that he loved me like crazy.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The early morning grief starts in my hands. They begin to tremor, barely noticeable, but enough that typing is awkward. I notice it when I stop and reach for a glass of water and see my fingers quaking. And…at that point, I notice that my stomach is moving. It feels as if there is not enough room in my body cavity to house it. It too quakes but in slow motion, I believe I feel it begin to turn inside out and I can feel the acid sliding down the outside dripping on my intestines.

I scoot to the bathroom. The process is mixed with the empty stuff from my stomach (for it is morning and I have yet to eat) and the tears from my eyes and thick gooey saliva from my mouth. I notice it’s been a while since I have cleaned the toilet. And I am laughing and crying and vomiting all at once.

There is just no way that he’s not here. This isn’t my life. This isn’t our life.

Shit. Should have never looked at that picture yesterday (see above). It is easier to live if I don’t remind myself that he is gone, I say as if I can avoid the huge elephant!

And the thing is, it’s not the him I miss, although it is. It’s more about the big bulking hole that I walk into, over, around and through every day. As the days go on, it becomes less about him and more about the loss.

Thurdsday, August 20, 2009

Ezra been crying lately. No. That’s not the word…weeping. Yes. That’s it. Wept two nights in a row saying how much he misses Daddy. Two nights ago I had a male friend over (non-available). We sat outside after desert, with our wine talking the way Art and I used to.

Pallas reported that Ezra was crying. I came in, annoyed. God all I want is a little grown-up time and I’m trying to do it so that you won’t have to have a babysitter and you three can’t keep your crap together for 20 minutes? I went to him and saw his little wet, red puffy face. He looked at me and said “I miss Daddy” and the waves of kid sobs came after.

Kid sobs -- the ones that take a hammer to your heart. The ones that make a mother crazy because if they are not due to something she did, she wants to annihilate whatever did cause the heartbreak, even if it’s another one of her children.

Only I can’t kill Art, I can’t hurt the cancer, I can’t change a damn thing and so in my powerlessness to save Ezra, I sit with him, hold him and harden my heart. Not to him but to this experience.

Last night he cried again. “It’s all the cancer’s fault.” he called from teh rim of the bathtub. “Yes, it is, Sweety.” I reply. Again, I am swinging at an invisible unhurtable opponent. Shit…their grief is what makes this process almost impossible. It’s harder to observe than my own. They lost their father and they don’t even understand how paramount that is because they have no idea what life events are coming that he was “supposed” to be there for.

Maybe that is why the picture of him and I made my vomit this morning. They don't know yet all that he will miss. I keep hoping that with each clench of my stomach I let go of a little more control and power. I can do nothing here but be. Funny, cause the just being is the most challenging part of this grief.

And after the morning worship to the porcelain god, I got up, got the kids out the door and we laughed and listened to music on the way to dropping them to surf camp and everything was normal and fun and just was. We are a happy family too.
I think that is what I want to tell you. It’s not all sadness. In fact, it’s more happy than sad as the distance from April 16, 2009 widens. We function daily and better and better and then we stop, triggered by a photo, someone sitting in daddy’s chair or a song and it’s as if we lost him yesterday. Then if I am brave enough to let go quickly (my kids are), we look up and laugh or get to work, or play, or complaining and we live. We live. We move forward, partly, cause standing still isn’t an option


Friday, August 21, 2009

“When are you going to get married again?” he asked
“I didn’t know you wanted me to.” I say
“Well, you don’t expect me to be without a father forever, do you?”
“No I guess not. I guess we are on the same page then.”
“No.” he says, “not the same page. I don’t want a husband. I want a father. We are on the same chapter.”

He smiles and takes his seven year old presence, that includes a wonderful behind (he got that from me, thank you very much), soft skin and the wisdom of a 100 year old man and asks Pallas if she wants to play.


  1. You don't need me to tell you this, but your son is a special kid ... smart, sensitive and wonderful HUGS. Love the photo of you both ... you look STUNNING ... he must have been so proud that you were his wife :-) and he'll be proud of you today.

  2. Anonymous5:33 AM

    yo... good style!