Patience to Endure

Tag: both and

  • The Split

    The Split

    This day will take more strength than I thought, sweet boy. I pray it doesn’t take more than I have.

    Today is Mother’s Day and you aren’t here. Thankfully, your brothers and Grandma are, so we will celebrate.

    There is now a split in my Mother’s Day. I will celebrate with two children while grieving one. It is an impossible situation yet somehow, I must persevere.

    I am no less a mother.

    Sweet boy, one of the most challenging parts of grieving you is learning to hold the both / ands.

    Grief and gratitude.

    Joy and sorrow.

    Hope and despair.

    Comfort and suffering.

    Today is surviving them all simultaneously. It is smiling for what remains and crying for what is gone. Often at the same time.

    I cried harder this morning than I have in a few days. I was able to wait until the house was quiet. I am not sure if that means I am getting stronger or learning to carry grief better. Perhaps it is both.

    Over the last ten weeks, I have tried untangling the both / ands of loss. I am beginning to realize it is impossible. So now I sit with them. I accept them. I will, eventually, learn to understand their contradictions and, rather than wrestle with them, relent.

    Do you remember the song you loved that went…

    Do you like lasagna? Yes I do! Do you like popsicles? Yes I do! Do you like lasagna popsicles? No I don’t!

    That is what both / ands are, sweet boy. Two things that don’t go together. Except I don’t have a choice whether or not I like them. It just is.

    Mother’s Day is all about celebrating mothers. But to mothers, it is about the children who made us moms.

    Thank you, sweet boy, for letting me be your mom for 24 glorious years. I am both destroyed and exceedingly grateful for that time.

    Being your mom was — is — my highest honor.

  • The Question

    The Question

    I took Baby to get his hair cut. I think he has grown taller since you left. The hairdresser couldn’t believe he was only thirteen years old. Since we were there, I checked to see if they could squeeze me in. It has been at least two years since I had a professional haircut. They had availability ten minutes after Nathan’s appointment began, so I waited.

    Something in me knew.

    My anxiety increased exponentially.

    I would, for the first time, be asked the inevitable question.

    My arms pressed into the chair as if holding on during the ascent of an unintended roller coaster ride. My hands involuntarily grasped the arm rest as it was about to reach the apex – leading to a steep decline, racing out of control.

    My body braced for the impact my soul was about to experience. The unpredictable cruelty Grief enjoys was about to send me into a sudden, wild drop because a stranger wanted to make small talk. Of course, the stylist had no way of knowing. I looked like any other mom taking her teenager and herself for a cut.

    I had only been in her chair for a couple of minutes before it came.

    Do you have other children?

    There it was.

    Nathan’s haircut was finished and he waited on the couch nearby. As soon as he heard her, his head whipped around to see me. He wanted to make sure I was alright. He knew me and the weight a stranger’s question carried – it pierced my soul and put your baby brother on high alert.

    I have two other boys, but one passed away.

    Gentle tears escaped, despite trying to contain them. Will I ever be able to say that sentence without crying?

    Sweet boy, I know you are gone and I am not sure why it hurts more when I have to say it. Will it always?

    I still have three boys, but they are not all here.

    How can such a simple question be so complicated? How can it cause such turmoil? I see Grief laughing in the corner.

    You always loved getting your hair cut. Your friend, Tammy, an instructor from the Virginia Institute of Autism, would come to the house and cut it. We learned she could cut hair after you discovered a buzzer in the bathroom. I didn’t know if I should be mortified you turned it on and cut your own hair – or be proud you turned it on and cut your own hair.

    That was life with you, sweet boy. It was never linear. There were no neat parallel lines. Everything was mixed together and inseparable. It was simple and complex. It was peaceful and chaotic. It was predictable and mysterious. It was wondrous and, at times, terrifying.

    We lived the epitome of “both/and.”

    You would think I would be able to handle conflicting simultaneous truths Grief presents better because that was life with you. But here in the after they are heavier and make less sense, as does everything. The untangling takes more energy than I have. Some days just living seems to take as much energy than I can muster.

    Sweet boy, “they” say Grief never leaves – I will learn to carry her. I suppose that means first I need to catch her.

    Seven weeks in the after, I am nowhere near being able to predict when and where she will show up – sometimes with callous ferocity leaving me on the floor in a fetal position. Other times she gently whispers, “I am still here.” 

    She is - 
    everywhere...
    unpredictable...
    vicious...
    gentle...
    stealthy...
    a slow burn...
    never ceasing...

    How will I ever catch her?

    Today, she waited quietly to ambush me – in a chair getting my hair cut.