The truth is this stinks.
Grief is like being in labor. You have to ride the waves of excrutiating pain .
The difference, of course, is that once through labor, you have some physical fruit to show for your labor.
With grief, you still feel empty.
It is so random & while I respect the process, I am not good at being brought to the floor in tears.
Being blind-sided by sound-byte pixellated memories is just the worst.
I keep going back to those last days in hospital ... grasping to fill in the gaps ... last words ... leaning over Vic's head, asking him if I should give the staff his living will ... him telling me I would know when the time was right ... to promises whispered in Vic's ear as he lay, dying.
I miss him so much, it feels like I've been punched in my stomach. You know when a child just gasps for air between sobs ... that gasping has actually made my "abs" hurt. My forehead is muscle-fatigued from the crying-frown.
Frown & cry I do.
It started last night at about 8pm.
Has not stopped yet.
Like I said before, it is about learning how to ride the waves of sadness.
Who'd have thought at 52 I'd be taking up surfing?
Monday, April 12, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Hoos watching yoos?
House protected by homeing
Megascops.
Approach with caution.
Your every move is being observed.
Whether camoflagued in the surrounding trees
or out in the open, right by the front doors
You are not alone.
Nor are we ...
Megascops.
Approach with caution.
Your every move is being observed.
Whether camoflagued in the surrounding trees
or out in the open, right by the front doors
You are not alone.
Nor are we ...
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Exodus from home, desperately seeking manna from heaven
I have to say, the past several weeks have been maelstrom of spring cleaning.
A time of renewal.
Outdoors, the gadda is coming back into glorious bloom following February's hard freezes.
We have been painting, moving, removing, moving around, moving back, boxing, passing along as well as good old fashioned trashing.
Once again, nature becomes a metaphor for my personal spring cleaning (nothing to do with finding a sparkling washcloth either!)
For the past several years, a stronger, more mature self has been crying for hearing. She has been tearing at her own skin from the inside, in order to get out.
So, during the fifth month of the next chapter of my life, I found myself being wholely affected by the longer days, shorter nights, thoughts that ambush me during my quiet times ...
A perfect storm has come together, creating optimum conditions for very accute panic attacks. The kind that have you holding onto a heavy object just to stop yourself from being swept away by the tornado of visions, thoughts, memories, longings.
It's called mourning. That is what I am told.
It fucking sucks!
Can't believe Mummy has been here for a week already, less than a week left. Her visit coincides with an extended spring break.
Translation: no kids!
Our babies are Florida beach kids, all the way. Volleyball, fishing, swimming, friends, music, soda, pizza & cell phones.
Life is, indeed, a beach!
I have missed writing but it is not that I have been without Good 'n' Plenty to say. Just to busy puking or holding my discombobulated head or digging myself out of a potential Vesuvius of paperwork.
In the meantime, should Lili & I eat in, go out for sushi just the two of us or should we find out if our beloved children care to grace us with their company ...
As I said before, life's a beach!
A time of renewal.
Outdoors, the gadda is coming back into glorious bloom following February's hard freezes.
We have been painting, moving, removing, moving around, moving back, boxing, passing along as well as good old fashioned trashing.
Once again, nature becomes a metaphor for my personal spring cleaning (nothing to do with finding a sparkling washcloth either!)
For the past several years, a stronger, more mature self has been crying for hearing. She has been tearing at her own skin from the inside, in order to get out.
So, during the fifth month of the next chapter of my life, I found myself being wholely affected by the longer days, shorter nights, thoughts that ambush me during my quiet times ...
A perfect storm has come together, creating optimum conditions for very accute panic attacks. The kind that have you holding onto a heavy object just to stop yourself from being swept away by the tornado of visions, thoughts, memories, longings.
It's called mourning. That is what I am told.
It fucking sucks!
Can't believe Mummy has been here for a week already, less than a week left. Her visit coincides with an extended spring break.
Translation: no kids!
Our babies are Florida beach kids, all the way. Volleyball, fishing, swimming, friends, music, soda, pizza & cell phones.
Life is, indeed, a beach!
I have missed writing but it is not that I have been without Good 'n' Plenty to say. Just to busy puking or holding my discombobulated head or digging myself out of a potential Vesuvius of paperwork.
In the meantime, should Lili & I eat in, go out for sushi just the two of us or should we find out if our beloved children care to grace us with their company ...
As I said before, life's a beach!
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