Three Months

The twenty-fifth, three months ago, was a much different night. Breathless agony. Helpless tears. Wracking sobs. No sleep, not really. Just snatches, dragging awake to relentless bewildered desperate heartbreak.

Three months later, it looks different. Better. Easier. Horrible, still, but a sense of equilibrium mostly restored. As long as I don't look too closely or too long at my inner world.

This day was pretty good, partly because that's how I determined it would be, for my own sake.


I just wanted to get through this day in a fairly healthy way. To do so, I avoided prodding the wound with any sharp sticks. For example, I did not go to the storage unit today, to start going through Michael's things.

My day was comfortably filled, but not overfilled, with positive appointments.

I went to physical therapy this morning (my shoulder. long story). This was not comfortable, but very good, partly because my physical therapist Melanie is a lovely human being and I truly enjoy working with her. A little later, I joined a dear friend for Bible Study, and it was just right and spoke words of life to where my heart lives now. The gaps of my day were filled with ordinary things- tending to the dogs, eating, reading, working on the continuing task of bringing order to the lingering chaos of moving. This evening, when I passed the true three-month mark, the exact time the somber officer knocked on our door, I was at Tuesday Prayer with the same dear friend from earlier in the afternoon. Such a blessing, to be in the presence of love and kindness, sharing our hearts, talking of needs and blessings, so that that moment slipped by unmarked.

Mercy. Love. Kindness. Having these things gently in my day soothed peace into my heart and mind.

Not that I don't still walk in deep, bone-deep pain, three months later...but that I shaped this tender day to ease me past the mile-mark; to not cause fresh injury to the still-open wound of his loss.

God is good, so very good. He continues to softly love me, wisely help me, and strongly carry me through the deep waters. I am blessed by wonderful, kind, wise, loving friends who also help me walk this hard, hard road. I am blessed by a family who loves, who make this painful journey together, hand in hand, with gentle consideration.

In the midst of unbearable loss, I am deeply, greatly blessed in ways that help me to bear it after all.

I am grateful.

Oddly Normal

I think that it confuses people sometimes, that I seem so normal in the midst of this terrible tragedy. Some people think it's just weird, as if I'm not actually feeling sad. I can understand how they might think that, when they don't see any evidence of my sadness.

There are signs of it, but most people don't realize what they are. If I am wearing black, and those special jewelry pieces that hold a bit of Michael's ashes, and black cross earrings, chances are that I am having a hard day...but only those very close to me would pick up on those signs. I don't do those things to make a statement to others, but to privately honor the state of my own heart. Since I am fairly private with the depth of my pain, it is not obvious to most people.

Because I act so "normal" so much of the time, people end up sort of "forgetting" to treat me with care. This is hard. I seem fine, and carry on normal conversations, so I think it's hard for others to see where the lines are that maybe shouldn't be crossed.

No matter how fine I seem, in truth my emotional nerves are exceedingly raw. Being teased, mocked, put down, shamed, etc might usually irritate or offend me, or hurt my feelings. Now, these things feel like an assault; like acid poured on the raw bleeding skin of a terrible burn. I try not to lash out at people who say thoughtless things in the midst of this hard, hard time, but the truth is that these things really, deeply hurt. When someone says something that hurts, there is this sort of full-body shock at the sting of their words, as well as blank disbelief that anyone would think it remotely okay to say such a thing to someone in such pain.

But maybe they've forgotten the depth of the pain that my family and I are enduring.
Because I'm doing normal things, not hobbling around with bloodshot eyes and a tear-stained face.

Because sometimes I can talk about him quite naturally, without choking up.
Because sometimes I can say his name without instantly welling up with tears.

Hint: If I can't manage that, I don't do it.

As I think I've said before, even though a person is in the midst of catastrophic sadness, life just sort of grabs you by the face and forces you to keep doing all sorts of "normal" things, like planning and preparing meals, doing laundry, handling practical details of life, and having conversations about everyday things. This is hard, and feels very unfair and very surreal at times. This is also good, in that it pulls you out of your grief and forces you to breathe fresher air for a while. Life just, very forcibly, goes on.

I am a person who prefers to deal with hard things and deep emotions privately. I also feel that it would be wrong for me to victimize other people with my own internal reality, by flinging my pain in their faces. In general, I seek to help others to have a better day. This all plays into why I do seem so normal.

The truth is that I am far from okay.
My heart has been dealt a terrible, terrible blow.

While I look normal, going about and carrying on with life, talking and even laughing, there is this whole other reality that never, ever stops.

The part of me that is Michael's mommy fell to the floor screaming on the evening of June 25th, and she has never stopped. She never will. It will never, ever be okay that he is dead. She will never get over it. Deep inside of me, where the real, private, deepest feelings live, is a little room. This is where she is. If I open the door, I can hear her, screaming and sobbing, quite clearly. The only way that I can carry on, and stay sane, and function, is to kiss her on the head, and gently close the door.

The outside part of me then goes on with life, spending good times with my family and friends, caring for the dogs, talking to people, eating and laughing and just doing all of the things. Some days, normal is a mask that I wear to get through what has to be done. Some days, I am genuinely in a good mood and the smile and the laughter are real.

Inside, though, and not very far below the surface, the pain and shock and disbelief and terrible, terrible sadness swirl like dark, hard water.

Today is a good example of the vast dichotomy in which I now live.

I have had a peaceful, restful day, after months of intense emotion, and a catastrophic, exhausting tidal wave of change. It was just me here, with the dogs. I had a quiet, relaxed morning, enjoyed my devotional book while I ate breakfast, and found fresh insight in the passage of the Bible that I read. I rested. I had a lovely chat on the phone with my mom. I got two packages, with new jeans and new boots that I had ordered. When I put on this one pair of jeans, and the boots that I got to go with them, and saw how truly cute they are together, I actually squealed! LOL It felt so good to just be happy and excited about this simple, normal thing.

And then later, I finally sat down to pay Michael's bills. This is one of those very necessary things that has been nagging at me. These bills are almost three months past-due. This is really important, that they get paid. But it is hard. So very hard. Writing a letter to go with each payment..."We apologize for the delay in payment of this bill. Our son Michael passed away in June..." Oh, so hard.

The sweet high of this morning...the painful, heart-aching low of this afternoon.

This is reality.

While I seem normal and "fine," the truth is that in the background, I am still having to deal with things like this. We are having conversations as a family about when we might be able to survive going through Michael's belongings, when we might take his ashes to their resting place, and what that event might look like...about what kind of stone we might order, and how soon we have to set that process in motion.

So Kristie may seem fine, but Michael's mom is still having to deal with very hard things.

And Michael's mommy is devastated, and will never stop crying.

She shouldn't. Because this is really, really sad.

Where did she go?

Just so you know- in the course of our move, we have not had internet for about two weeks now. My fingers are itching to write things, to share my thoughts, but I just have not had the access that makes it possible. I'm on the road right now, on a "tour de grandparents" with our daughter, so only have bits of time here and there with internet access. Thank you for your patience in the midst of our upheaval.