Grief Sucks

I was wrenched awake at 4 this morning by an incredibly vivid dream. I found myself in London, England about to fly back to the States. But right before I boarded the plane I realized that I would have to leave my car there. I couldn't figure out a way to get it home without someone to help me. I didn't have a plan but to just leave it there. I was running from place to place trying to ask strangers what I should do but no one responded. It was like they didn't care, or even hear me as I franticly searched for anyone to help me come up with a solution. I finally ran out of time and had to head for the plane. When I got back inside the airport suddenly my mom was there and I was so relieved. She didn't say anything at all but because she was there I knew that everything was going to be ok. I was happy and peaceful, I wasn't in a frenzy anymore and I felt calm. I climbed the stairs to my plane and made my way down the aisle. I thought mom was behind me but when I sat down in my seat she wasn't there. From the window I saw her leaving the airport. I ran for her, calling her, "Mom! Mom!" I shouted. "Mom?" It went dark and I couldn't see her anymore. She was gone and I was overcome with grief. And I woke up in tears and trying to catch my breath.

My dreams have become some cruel figments of my imagination lately. So real they seem, as they taunt me with vivid images of my mom or my family. I've heard my mother calling my name so clearly that I've jumped completely out of the bed, stood upright on the floor and actually searched for her down the hallway before I realized what I heard wasn't even real. Sometimes waking up is so disappointing, shoved back into a world that my mom is no longer in. Sometimes I just want to sleep, go back to dreamland where I can visit her, see her, hear her voice. The grief counselor says this is 'normal'.

So it was 4 in the morning and I was awake. I ached all over and just rolling over onto my other side was painful. Despite taking Advil and Excedrin Migrane medicine before bed my back was in knots. I had fallen asleep watching the Olympics with a cold washcloth on my forehead. Seems like I've been nursing a 'sick headache' since sometime last week. Just a dull, aching headache that won't go away. It makes my eyes see 'sparkles' and sometimes it makes my stomach roll so much I think I might throw up. I put my cold, damp washcloth back on my head, stiffly rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. I was miserable - but no more miserable than any other night.

I woke up a few hours later feeling like I had been in an accident. Sitting up in the bed sent a shock of pain down my spine, my neck was stiff and my head was throbbing again. Oh yes, another fresh day to face. Another 24 hours to get through. I was grateful to wake up but really not down for another day filled with all this grief, worry, sickness and pain. I made my way out of bed and tripped over a laundry basket that's been sitting right there for weeks. I knew it was there, I just didn't pick my foot up enough to get around it. I nearly fell down with that stupid move. The day was getting worse by the minute.

I don't look in the mirror much anymore but made the mistake this morning. I looked exhausted. There were bags under my eyes, the lines on my forehead have deepened, my cheeks were puffy and bloated and I was pale. I looked like absolute hell this morning. I've aged, my mouth is downturned and my eyes aren't sporting the 'laugh-lines' that I used to be proud of. No, the mirror is not my friend - in fact I hate it. I don't recognize that girl. Oh grief. You've robbed me of my laugh lines.

Next up was the daily gastro-intestinal problems. Despite the doctor presribing medication for these stress-induced GI problems that have plagued me over the last few months, my stomach stays torn up and the acid burns my throat. Breakfast was Tums and coffee that didn't satisfy. I figured if I couldn't find a little happiness in coffee then this day wasn't looking any better than any other day I've had lately. I climbed in the shower and prayed. I do a lot of praying in the shower, it's quite and comfortable in there. I used to sing 'church songs' and really get my worship going first thing in the morning and I loved it. But now I pray things like "help me get through the day", "thank you for the air I breathe", "please mend my broken heart" and "tell my family I said hi."

By the time I got Matthew up and off to his camp I was already exhausted. I had to get myself together enough to get to work and get my job done. By no means is my job at all physical. The most physical thing I do is stand on my feet. Today I noticed after about an hour of standing I hurt like I'd been beat up. My back ached, my ribs hurt, I felt like I had a knot the size of a softball between my shoulder blades and my head was aching again. Even my ankle was hurting where I had tripped over the laundry basket earlier. More Advil, more coffee, whatever it takes to make it to the end of the work day and back home again. Once I got home I got Matthew fed and cleaned up, I hit the couch and that was the end of it for me today. Except for writing this blog. I should probably get up and do some laundry or wash a few dishes but even the thought is overwhelming.

According to the 'grief experts', these physical problems that I've been having lately are all part of 'stage-two' of the grieving process and all perfectly normal. Changes in sleep patterns, exhaustion, GI problems, aches and pains and headaches are just par for the course. And so are things like loss of interest in things that used to be enjoyable, isolation, avoiding people and those sorts of things. If you 'google' grief symptoms - it turns out that I have a text-book case of it. My head swirls, my thoughts race and I'm bombarded with memories. Everything I see, do, smell, think of makes me think of mom, miss her, miss my family. I even grieve for my home, my old bedroom, mama's kitchen, daddy's little building. It's all gone. Somedays I just sit at dad's piano - now in my living room - and run my fingers over the keys or pull out the drawer of mom's hutch so it'll make that familiar squeak. The rest of my family home is crammed into a 10x15 storage building and my worry over what to do with it all or how to pay for the storage fee nearly induces an anxiety attack. I can't keep it all - but I can't bear the thoughts of parting with it. I don't know what to do or how to be. And I cry. A lot.

I see little old ladies and it upsets me that my mother didn't get to be one. I see children with their grandparents and I'm so disappointed that Matthew won't get to grow up with my parents. I'm envious of people spending 'family time' together and enjoying the company of loved ones. I miss having any family or someone who loves me like a mom loves her daughter. Everything feels monumental, I can't concentrate, I'm not functioning at 100% and sometimes I feel like I'm choking. I've forgotten to do things like pay the rent, I've missed turns on my usual routes, I lose track of time or forget what day it is. I'm desperately lonely and so incredibly sad. I'm worried that eventually the people around me will not want to be around me anymore because I always talk about it or I can't "snap out of it". I worry that my Christian brothers and sisters will doubt my faith because I've been unable to "cast my worries on Him". I feel guilty, mad and frustrated. Sometimes I think I'm losing it completely. And all perfectly normal according to the grief counselor. When I say things like "I can't wait to get back to normal", this is not what I meant.

I'm so thankful for my salvation, God's love for me and His promise to never leave me or forsake me. I believe that not because I see it but because I have felt it. It has coursed through my veins and it's the foundation of my whole life, my purpose and how I try to raise my son. I know that God has a plan for me and none of this has taken Him by surprise. I'm being refined in this season of grief and I'm certain I'll come out on the other side of this process as a stronger person and hopefully a testament to just how good God really is. In no way do I ever want to minimize the importance of God in my life. (I don't even want to say the word "but" here)... But. I'm grieving. As much as I believe that He's "got this" and I need to trust that, turn my eyes upon Jesus and carry on, I am physically struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I'm glad in that I don't "grieve like those who have no hope", according to the Apostle Paul in the Book of 1 Thessalonians. If I didn't at least have that, I don't think I would have made it out of bed this morning. I know I'll see my mom again - my whole sweet family who are all there together. And until then I'll be here... waking up on this side of the grass and trying to adjust to my new "normal".

I'm compelled to apologize to the people in my life. I'm sorry if I've dropped the ball or lost interest in stuff. I apologize for looking like hell, spending the last 3 months on my couch, avoiding everything, slumping my shoulders when I walk or crying at lunch. Bear with me as I muddle through this 'process' - according to the experts I have one more stage to go.