Grief is boring. My blog is boring. Who wants to hear one more word about grief? I know I don't.
But I can't get away from it.
My primary identity is as a grieving parent. I don't remember feeling this way about other difficult things I've dealt with. I'm the parent of a child with Down syndrome, but it's never felt like my primary identity. I'm a cancer mom, but, again, it's never felt like my primary identity. But this? This is huge.
Mark died over 20 months ago. That's a long time. And no time at all.
If you've never lost a child and you think you can possibly imagine what it's like, you can't. It's like trying to explain to expectant parents the amazing feeling of love you have for your own kids. You can't really understand it until you experience it.
There's little that interests me these days. I keep my family loved, comforted, fed, and clothed. When I'm not actively engaged in any of those activities, I just exist. Joy comes in little bursts, and then it's back to the grind of grief. Not crying all the time, just weighed down.
Grief, grief, grief. Ugh.
I'm in the process of cleaning out my mother's home as she still exists in the twilight of a minimally conscious state. While grieving, I have been searching for personal memories and clues to private individual that I knew only as mother among the detritus of a semi-hoarder's lifetime. I recently came across this poem and thought of you too...