*Warning!!! This blog is being used as a therapeutic tool today. You may not actually want to read these ramblings.
Well, you’ve been warned…
I am seriously starting to think about writing a book about grief called, How Are You, Really? I had that question posed to me again today. Please don’t think I’m angry. A month ago, I would have asked that to someone in my situation. I can’t be mad because the people who ask love me or at the very least are genuinely concerned about my well being.
Here’s my problem. How am I supposed to answer that question? Am I supposed to say, “I’m great,” or even “I’m okay?” The thing is, I’m not. I don’t think you want to hear that. I won’t be okay for a very long time. I am not supposed to be crying all the time. I supposed to be washing onesies and getting Bria ready to share a room with a little sister that she isn’t going to meet. I should be buying new sheets and tiny socks instead of packing up all the maternity clothes and stowing them under the bed. Every time I think about that I’m not okay.
While I’m talking about questions I don’t know how to answer, there are a few other things I could get off my chest. You don’t need to tell me things could be worse. I’m rational. I realize that. Frankly I’m not wondering how worse things could be. I spend most of my days trying to think about how good things are instead of how awful they seem. When you ask how I am, really… and wait for my answer you are just reminding me of what I don’t have instead of what I do.
Now while you think I’m having a pity party, let me tell you what I’m really doing with my days. I am attending parent teacher conferences and celebrating Arleigh’s and Hanan’s achievements with them. I’m teaching Bria how to stick out her tongue and laughing when she manages to show off her tricks at very inappropriate times. I’m feeding animals and cleaning up after kids who act like animals. I’m working for our church. I’m starting to have mostly good days. Today was one of those, for a while. Until I was asked the dreaded question and spent the rest of the day trying not to feel sorry for myself.
As I said. I’m rational. I know we could choose to have another baby. I often think when I’m hearing Arleigh and Hanan whispering in their room that we will probably try. I can’t imagine Bria being 13 watching her sisters go off to school and being here by herself without a sibling to talk to. So, maybe… I also know it’s not another baby I want. It’s the little sister that we thought we would have to complete our family. I don’t know how to feel about trying to fill that void. In short, I’m feel jipped. I want Jessa. I want to be able to see that sweet little face grow up. It’s not going to happen.
So my random thought for the day is this. I’ve learned that grief is most certainly not like a faucet. I don’t get to turn it off or even down. I wish it came with a valve. Instead, it comes unexpectantly in waves. I just have to ride the waves on bad days and appreciate the days when the grief is like a calm glass lake. People have become very much like ships in the water. When they come at me fast, there can be huge waves. If they’re careful and idle up, I tend to get through it much better. If you’re coming at me and create a monster wake, just ignore me. Eventually I’ll learn how to ride it out.