A week off of blogging, some time off to do some writing, organizing, homework, a weekend away to get away from it all, meetings with mentors to sort through my emotions, and still, only a bit of relief. Welcome to year 2, almost.
Discombobulated may be the best way to describe life. My dad is recooperating while we await more information on the surgery results. He’s in better spirits, and spending some time with him last week alleviated a few of my concerns. Now the wait. I haven’t digested much from my Grandmother’s passing-but with the holidays approaching, I’m sure we’ll all, especially my Mother, feel that pang. The two year mark is this coming Thursday, and I’ll be spending it with 3 kiddos under the age of 6, which I hope means some pleasant and fun distractions from my normal daily jobs.
I would say my anxiety is high, my worry slightly abated, but still present. The buildup to a sad anniversary (sadversary) is most times, as I have found in the past, much much worse than the actual day. I anticipate this will be the same for this anniversary. But still, it doesn’t seem to take away the fear or the sadness, or the constant reminiscing of those sad memories of what this day means for me. It’s a horrible day to remember.
This year it feels so different-everyone has seemingly moved on, but I’m still “here”, remembering having to say goodbye, remembering having to pray with Kevin that God would release him from his pain, to tell Kevin as I lay by his bed that I would be ok if it was his time to go, hearing his breath becoming more and more labored-do you want to hear this? Probably not. The moment I had to walk out of the room when the nurses came into check on him, when I had to call all the family and tell them this was it, he wasn’t going to make it through the day despite what was predicted, that they needed to come immediately. To call his mother, oh God, to call his mother. That pain, that pain of what both she and his brother must have felt receiving that call, not being here. The pain I felt saying the words I knew were true, that he would be dead soon. Knowing it was just me and the staff at Johns Hopkins there, no one to comfort me when I walked back into that room and heard him take his last two breaths. Not even saying goodbye because I was in so much shock. Just crying, sobbing by his side, pressing the nurse button frantically knowing that when they came in, they would be pronouncing him dead. Dead. Sitting there, in shock, crying, the chaplain coming in, having me talk about Kevin as I sat by his still, cold, body. Shock, waiting for my family to get off work and arrive hours later. To walk out the room, making funeral arrangements in a side room just down the hall from Kevin. Taking that one last walk back into the room with my family as we said our last goodbyes. Goodbye.
Are there ever enough of them?