The problem with grief is that if you didn't know better, you'd think you were going crazy. And yes, some people treat you like you ARE. But you're really not, I promise. Whatever it is that you're feeling is NORMAL. Ever hear me gripe about that word before? Yeah. May as well start off my psychotic ramble with that one.
Normal. You're normal. You're normal for where you are. You're normal for where you're at. You're normal for feeling what you're feeling. And yeah, after you research and look into it, you ARE normal. So normal that you start hating the word. You don't WANT to be normal with fine print or a kicker. You want the OTHER normal that normal people have that they don't know is normal. You know for a FACT that normal shouldn't include dead kids, but yours does and everybody and their fat dog will tell you so. You accept that your normal isn't the normal normal and wish you could scream it from the rooftops and writhe around on the floor foaming at the mouth, but you don't, because normal people don't do that, even though for your normal it would be normal and that scares you because you think it means you're not normal. But it is. If that sounds convoluted, try living it every day for years on end and then you'll see what I mean.
Your kids drive you mad by running screaming laps around the kitchen island until you want to send them all to their rooms and hide in yours with your head wrapped in vinegar and brown paper, but on the other hand you have a huge pang in your gut because there's not more of the hyenas raging about the kitchen.
You love going on dates with your husband and getting to run off and spend the night away from everybody, by yourselves, whenever you can find somebody to watch the kids... But while you're doing it you remember that you wouldn't be able to do this if the youngest was still here like he's supposed to be.
You watch your baby being bagged and a doctor doing chest compressions on him, until the doctor turns to you and says they need to stop because he's going and you want with every single fiber of your being to go with him. But you stay, because you know that your husband and your other little people need you and that God might be able to handle taking care of him and hiring babysitters until you get to heaven to be with him.
You fly into a full out rage at God for taking your fourth baby, but at the same time you know, somewhere, somehow, some way, sometime, it's gonna be all better because you'll be with all of them in heaven and never have to leave them again. But in the mean time... it takes a while before you can come to speaking terms with the man upstairs again when it looks like he failed you at the thing that mattered most to you. It's a good thing he knows what it's like to lose a kid!
Just remember this all you people, God knows how it feels. He turned his face away and couldn't watch when his son died. And HIS kid was coming back in three days! It sure ain't been no three days since any of mine left! And I haven't caused any earthquakes or darkness over the world or dead bodies walking out of graves. I guess my violence of grief isn't too bad on a scale of mine vs. God's! There's perspective in there if you wanna see it...
You want to take every piece of chocolate, every flower, every single teddy bear and memento ever given to you in the last year and turn them in for the baby they represent, but you know you can't, so you go to bed singing "I'm yearning for the day when strife is ended, and I shall enter Zions golden hall. Where all my trials weepings are suspended, no tears of sorrow ever more shall fall." And you hug your teddy bear that belonged to your baby, wrapped in the blanket you held him in.
You want to wreak havoc and mayhem on the person who kept you from seeing your baby alive and doing good, but instead you sit and pray violently that you will be able to forgive. And you do that a thousand times a day some days. And while you pray, you pray that your prayer will be answered in the order in which it was received.
You know that time has a way of softening the knife edges, but I also know that time takes it poor old sweet time getting you to the soft place. That's a problem I have with mulitple losses. I know too much. I wish I was blissfully unaware of how hellish it actually is to lose a baby and how long it takes to be peaceable about it. But I'm not.
I wish I could kindly say "I know how you feel." But I don't, because I don't and I know that. I know approximately what's gonna go on and when and I do my best to be there on those days, but I don't know how you feel. I'm not you and I sure ain't gonna tell you it's coming so you can live in dread of those days like I do. That's the worst part. But it's also the best... At least I'm not blindsided anymore when I turn into the Wicked Witch of the West for a few months. I know it's coming so I can bathe myself in, drink, and diffuse essential oils furiously to help with the darkness. Yay me? Somebody give a one-handed clap for me.
I fear I'm regressing away from my dark/light topic. I think it comes from a day of crying over YouTube songs while organizing 989 rubber Lauri game pieces and pegs, changing diapers, and making chicken, mashed potatoes, KFC coleslaw and biscuits for supper while teaching English.
Go on y'all, quit reading this, take a moment to scream wildly whilst you beat a hole in the floor with your fists and if anybody looks at you oddly tell them I said you're normal.
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