Carbonated Grief

I am a vessel filled with carbonated grief.  I am a vessel filled to the brim with carbonated grief and I feel like I am going to explode.  The cap to my vessel is ratcheted on tightly, to avoid abrupt, uncontrollable eruption.

My days are a delicate balance of managing the pressure of grief inside me.  Some things agitate the grief and increase the pressure, some permit a slow dissipation, and some simply allow the grief to sit still until the next agitation or release.  But there is always the baseline pressure inside, dormant until disturbed or released, much like the bubbles along the walls of a carbonated water bottle.

These things allow me a safe place to very slowly lessen the stranglehold of tightness on the cap and release some of the pent up  grief:

1. Teaching exercise classes:  here I get to focus on what I love, and get to be with people I love, all while opening the cap to a constant slow release option.  My heavy heart gets an opportunity to lighten during this time and space, and the built up pressure streams out in a constant relief of sadness.
2. Spending time with Seth and Mary: just being in the presence of my kids diffuses the grief.  We can sit together in silence, or watch silly videos on a phone, or talk.  Anything with them helps.  I crave healing time with these two.
3. Cuddling with my dogs: just burying my face in Zander or Zara’s fur gives me relief.  Their warmth comforts me, and being able to stroke their fur over and over calms me.

 

Then there are the things that agitate the grief, and increase the pressure inside:

1. Waking up.  Every morning, still, waking up is so hard.  I long for more sleep every morning, to postpone the inevitable agitation.  There is no way around it.  If I don’t get up, then I also can’t participate in the things that release the pressure.  I need the release more than I need the sleep, so I get up.
2. Being around Rick: this should be in the first category, but it’s not.  He tells me I’m handling the loss of Grace so much better than the loss of Lucas.  I’m not.  I’m just more experienced.  I tell him exactly what I need from him to help relieve pressure, but it doesn’t happen.  Is it because he doesn’t understand, or doesn’t consider it important?  I don’t want to know the answer, so instead I withdraw.  More and more pressure builds.

And finally there are the things that simply still the grief, returning the pressure to baseline:

1. Walking my dogs: nearly mindless movement to help settle the pressure that builds and causes me to get so jittery I begin to shake.  I can hook up their leashes and walk until the shaking stops.  For that I am thankful.
2. Being at work: the very act of going into work, and putting myself in the presence of other people, people who care about me, helps settle the grief bubbles.  For that I am thankful as well.
3. Wine: yes, 2 glasses of wine a night help me sleep and return to baseline, so that I can get up the next morning and manage the balance all over again.

Here is what I wonder:

1. Carbonated water eventually loses all its pressure, and becomes flat.  Is that my fate?

 

 

 

 

This time….

This time…

There never should have been a last time. And for damn sure there NEVER should have been a this time….but there were both.

Last time it was my beloved son, Lucas.
This time it was my precious daughter, Grace.

Last time it was June 2, 2015.
This time it was January 23, 2020.

Last time Grace was with me when we found out Lucas had died.
This time Grace was with me when we found out Grace had died. Because I found her.

Last time we knew exactly what killed Lucas: heroin overdose 5 days out of rehab.
This time we have to wait about 30 days for the coroner’s report and toxicology report. The only thing we do know is that it WAS NOT suicide.

Last time Blake handled the after death arrangements.
This time I am handling, with the strength and beauty of my Seth and Mary, and an army of people who love us.

Last time my mom and sister came to be with me in the days after Lucas’ death.
This time I am asking them to stay home in the immediate days after, knowing I will need them more later, when the space gets too quiet.

Last time…I don’t remember much of the first week.
This time I’m a bit less foggy, but not always.

Last time I had no idea what I needed.
This time I know to call friends and ask them to sit with me, walk with me, feed my family.

Last time Rick had to pull me out of bed every morning.
This time I’m able to tell Rick before going to sleep, “the first 15 minutes of being awake are the hardest. Please don’t let me wake up to an empty house. Please get me up gently and make sure I have some coffee before you leave.”

Last time Seth and Mary were teenagers, new to this community, and had few local friends to help them grieve.
This time they are young adults, have loving partners (thank you Meg and Nick), who also have loving families (thank you Leslie and Goose, and the Rumbo family), and they are being loved on by a big circle.

Last time the police took Lucas’ phone and I was thirsty for some way to keep him close.
This time I have Grace’s phone and I look thru it (probably too much) so that I can continue to feel her life. It really helps.

Last time I really wished I had a lock of Lucas’ hair, and photographs of all his tattoos.
This time I will keep some of Grace’s beautiful curls, and I will find someone to take close up photos of each of her tattoos. I can’t do it, but someone out there can.

Last time I wrote to help me sort my thoughts.
This time I will write to help me sort my thoughts.

And for fuck’s sake, there better not be a next time.

Fear of Flying

I have always enjoyed traveling, exploring new places with people I love. Flying however, not so much. The acceleration leading to lift off, the turbulence during flights, the bumps on landing….all those moments create anxiety for me. My body tenses and my stomach turns, and I don’t relax until I’ve made it back onto firm, unmoving ground.

But now, my fear of flying has increased a thousand fold. I was on a plane when I learned Lucas died.

June 2, Grace and I were flying back to Kansas City from Playa del Carmen, Mexico, where we had just spent 5 days celebrating her graduation from massage therapy school. We woke up at 3:45 a.m. to start our return to KC. During our layover in Houston, I received two texts from my ex-husband that unsettled me. First one said “Apparently Lucas has been asleep since 6 last night.” Second one said he “didn’t answer text last night.” My ex said he was going to go check on Lucas, and then get back in touch with me. I could do nothing but wait and continue traveling home, fear growing like a tumor inside me. We boarded our final flight in Houston, and I turned my phone off.

We landed in KC, and I immediately turned my phone back on. A voicemail loaded from my ex-husband, saying “call me as soon as you land.” Followed up by a text stating simply, “Call.”

I started shaking. I did not want to make that phone call. I did not want to find out. I already knew, but I didn’t want to know. We had just landed, we were near the back of the plane, and no one had started de boarding. We were trapped, with the terrifying cloud of loss hovering over us, just waiting for me to dial. Grace said, “Mom, you have to call.”

So I did. I made the call. I heard the words. And I started screaming. And I couldn’t stop.

I don’t really remember what happened during that first hour. I know that I held Grace as tight as I could to get off the plane as fast as we could, screaming with every single horrifying step. I know we both collapsed to the ground multiple times as we tried to make our way up the walkway and into the terminal. I know we both crumpled in front of the gate, sobbing and wailing while the other passengers unloaded around us.

A compassionate terminal employee came to help pick us up, put Grace in a wheelchair, and helped me walk out of the gate area and into the main part of the terminal. Somehow I called Rick to come pick us up.

I sat on a bench, Grace sat in a wheelchair, and we both wailed and moaned. The sound of grief is indescribable. I held my daughter as tight as I could while she cried a deep, guttural agonizing cry. I joined her with my own howls and tears and could only mutter the words “it’s not true, it can’t be true” over and over and over. We huddled together, hanging on to each other , gasping for air while the reality of Lucas’ death began its suffocating descent.

Rick arrived to collect us, bringing my son Seth with him to help get us home. Seth did not yet know what happened, but as soon as he stepped out of the truck and took one look at me, at Grace, he knew. I tried to speak but I don’t know if I managed to say any words. My senses were slowly shutting down as shock consumed me. Seth helped load our suitcases, then climbed into the backseat with both of us, sitting in the middle and holding me close while I continued to sob. A younger brother, postponing the start of his own grief in order to hold his mama. I melted into the arms of my boy, who stood up to be a man in this most horrible moment.

We drove home, and Rick and Seth helped us out of the car. I could barely move my body, barely pick up my feet to make the steps into the house. Grace moved more quickly, getting inside and heading straight upstairs to find Mary, who also didn’t know. By the time I got in the house I could hear Mary’s wails, pure and piercing. The sound of a little sister’s heart breaking in two. Grace, Seth, Mary and I fell into a big pile, holding, hugging, and crying together as the black hole of grief pulled at us. The amount of collective pain in that room…no words, no images, no comparisons can even begin to represent it.

So much of the next several days is a blur, but this I knew: I never wanted to go back to the airport, never wanted to fly again. Never wanted to take the risk that another one of my children would die while I was suspended 30,000 feet in the air, helpless.

But I did.   I returned to the airport, and got back on a plane. Rick and I took a quick trip to Las Vegas near the end of July, hoping that a few days away would provide a bit of light. I was anxious and jittery and Rick was very loving, keeping hold of my hand and providing steady reassurance. But once we got on the plane, we were not able to sit together. I began to physically shake, and tears slipped down my cheeks. I started feeling nauseous, trapped, terrified.

As seats continued to fill, a boy, about 11 or 12, sat down next to me. He had dark wavy hair and wore a wool fedora.  Lucas loved fedoras.

This boy’s name was Skyler, and his mother sat in the seat directly in front of me. Throughout the flight I listened as Skyler talked to his mom. And I reminisced about Lucas when he was that age, remembering his personality, the way he talked to me, the way he smiled. At one point Skyler turned to look out the window and I saw his curls peeking out from underneath his hat. It took every single ounce of strength I had to not reach over and twine my fingers through his curls, to not touch him and for a tiny moment pretend he was Lucas.

We spent four days in Vegas, and did find a bit of light. As we were preparing to fly home, I texted Grace, seeking reassurance that everything was okay before I ended up on the plane, unable to communicate. She didn’t answer my first, second, or third texts. I called a few times and she still didn’t answer. Panic swelled inside me, fear and anxiety took over and my whole body grew tense. I started crying a bit, and didn’t relax until I finally got confirmation that she was okay. Grace was merely asleep, but in those unknown moments my mind travelled down a terrifying path of potential loss.

We headed to the airport, boarded the plane, and again discovered that Rick and I couldn’t sit together. I found another seat and asked the man next to me if he would be willing to switch seats so I could sit next to Rick, but he declined. I turned my phone off, put it away, closed my eyes, and started bouncing my leg to self soothe while a few tears leaked out. The fear of turning my phone off was miniscule compared to the fear of turning it back on. The fear of what might happen while I was disconnected from Earth and from my children. We landed a few agonizingly long hours later, and only then did my body begin to relax, after I got proof that all my children were still alive.

I had survived two flights, and so had my children.

We headed back to the airport a week ago, for a quick getaway to Chicago. It was much same song, second verse. But anxiety was a little bit better, instead of a little bit worse. We landed in Chicago and headed out of the airport to find our shuttle bus to the rental car. As we climbed onto the bus, I looked out the front window to the people standing on the curb just a few yards in front of us.

There was Lucas.

My heart stopped. It couldn’t be, but maybe…maybe he wasn’t really gone. Maybe he had just moved to Australia, as I so wanted to believe.

Oh did that young man look like Lucas! Same age, same lanky build, same angular face, same style of clothing, same long brown thick curly hair, same sideburns. I wanted to jump off that bus and run to this young man, grab him, hold him, smell him, believe he was my son. I wanted him to be Lucas.

Different airport, same words. It’s not true, it can’t be true.

This time it wasn’t true. That young man was not Lucas. But for the briefest of moments I got to see my son again.

Four flights, four times being suspended from my children, four terrifying moments turning my phone back on. Four times finding out that my children were alive and safe.

And two times seeing Lucas. Almost.

The fear of flying will  never go away completely. But maybe, just maybe, the balancing gift will be getting a glimpse of Lucas in some unexpected way each trip.

Lucas, I will fly, looking for you. Will you fly, looking for me?

The Other Mothers

A few Saturdays ago I met some  Columbia neighborhood ladies for lunch here in Kansas City. They were having a girls weekend and invited me to join them for any part that I could. I chose lunch.

“Neighborhood ladies” is really the wrong term to describe these three women. Our four families grew up next door and across the street from each other, and were as intertwined as we could possibly be without being polygamous. Four mothers, 11 children. Seven boys, four girls. These ladies were really Lucas’ other mothers.

Our four boys closest in age—Lucas, Harry, West, and Matthew—were inseparable. Lucas, West and Matthew joined forces when we moved into the neighborhood, just days after Lucas turned three. Best friends from the moment we began unloading the moving truck. Where there was one boy, there was three.   Harry joined the neighborhood in fifth grade and three seamlessly became four.

Four boys can dream up some pretty inventive adventures, so we four moms for the most part parented as one force. We kept similar house rules and communicated openly with each other. While I’m certain the boys pulled the wool over our eyes more than we know, four moms kept a better watch than one. From shooting out windows with a BB gun, to writing names in fresh cement in a nearby development, to perusing online pornography, we shared truths and imposed consequences together.

We parented as one force, and we loved as one force. We considered the whole herd of children ours, and we loved and cared for them all. As the boys flowed from one house to the next, we fed them, dried their snow clothes, doctored up their various cuts and scrapes, and hosted countless sleepovers. We stepped in and cared for each other’s children without needing to ask. We LOVED each other’s boys. If anything had ever happened to me, these three women would be at the very top of the list to take care of my kids.

I never thought they would need to take care of me because I lost my son.

On the day Lucas died these ladies poured out to me. From Christy (Harry’s mom) I received these words: “Nita, I’m so very sorry. Please let me know how I can help.” Followed by “The neighborhood has been full of sorrow. We all want to help in any way we can. Harry sends his love. He was heartbroken.” Then later, “I can’t imagine the pain and ache in your heart. I heard a song on the way to work yesterday…I thought of Lucas and sobbed all the way.”

Elizabeth (West’s mom) called me the day Lucas died, but I couldn’t speak and didn’t answer the phone. She called again the next day and I forced myself to answer, unsure if I could talk. My barely audible hello was met with sobs, not words. We cried and cried together over the phone. Elizabeth finally spoke, “I’ve been looking at photos all morning, and I just can’t stop crying. He is in all of our pictures. He was such a loving, wonderful boy, and I’m so so sad.” We talked and cried together for a bit more, the tears far outweighing the words. Two mothers, grieving the loss of one son.

On the day of Lucas’ memorial service, these three women surrounded me with their arms and their love. Openly mourning the loss of one of our boys. He was their son too.

The Saturday morning I was to meet these ladies for lunch, I woke up heavyhearted. At first I wasn’t really sure why, but as I lay in bed thinking, I realized I was scared. Scared of what it might feel like, joining up with these women who still had their sons. Scared of being envious, jealous, bitter. I loved these women, but I was jealous. They still had a future with their sons. I did not. I was afraid I would feel out of place, a mother minus a son. Tears flooded out of my eyes and I curled up in a fetal position, seriously contemplating cancelling to avoid the potential pain.

But I didn’t. I forced myself to get up, get ready, and drive to downtown Kansas City to meet these women. Women who I KNOW love me deeply. Women who I KNOW understand how much I hurt, and how much I will continue to hurt. Women who KNOW there are no words to make the pain go away, no words to explain why I lost my son.

So, we lunched, and we talked, and we walked. I was happy and sad in the same moments. Comforted and uncomfortable in the same space. And I was safe to feel all these things in the presence of my fellow mothers. At the end of our short time together, we hugged goodbye, and I cried a bit. Joy and deep sadness leaking out in combined tears.

Walking back to my car, I remembered these words from Christy, “I know all the neighbor ladies would do anything for you, please don’t hesitate to ask. We don’t want to intrude, but if you just need to cry, laugh, talk, be held in a safe group of mothers who understand…we will make the time and open our arms and hearts.”

Yes, please. I do need.

Unpacking Lucas’ Life

My two oldest children lived together for the last year. From the first of September 2014, until the day he died, Lucas and Grace shared an apartment. Grace was in massage therapy school and Lucas was working part time and taking night classes at Columbia College. Grace graduated her program in May and was preparing to move to Kansas City in June to begin her new job. Lucas was going to stay in the apartment through the end of the lease and then find another place and another roommate. It seemed we had all the plans in place for our two oldest children to continue moving into adulthood.

But plans were blown to smithereens on June 2, when Lucas died. I never stepped foot in the apartment again, and neither did Grace, until the day we packed up the apartment and moved EVERYTHING to Kansas City.

Thankfully, neither Grace nor I had to box and bag up the apartment. Other family and friends took on that unbearably difficult task. Grace stayed with me in Kansas City, along with our other two children, returning the weekend after Lucas’ memorial service to make the move to KC.

By the time I made it back to Columbia, dear friends and family had already loaded the moving trailer with all the contents of the apartment, plus the contents of a storage unit. I had no idea, really, what was in the trailer. These same dear friends and family drove the trailer to KC and unloaded everything into Grace’s future townhome. House and garage were full of more furniture, boxes, and bags then I could remember.

Somewhere in the midst of those boxes and bags were all of Lucas’ material possessions.

I did not want to open anything.

I wandered, mostly aimlessly, between townhome and garage, thinking I should do something, but being unable to. Three of Lucas’ best friends  continued to help move furniture in place. I was overwhelmed by the love and support of these young men. They had dedicated their weekend to helping move Grace to Kansas City. They did it because they loved Lucas. And because they loved us.

That was one of Lucas’ defining characteristics: he ALWAYS brought his friends home to us. To eat with us. To hang out with his siblings. To be loved by us. To become part of our family.

And so, through this minefield of memories, I tiptoed, minus my Lucas, but plus three surrogate sons, delivered to me by my oldest, generously loving boy.

Furniture settled in place (sort of), boxes crowded countertops and corners, and bags gathered in piles. I wandered into the front bedroom where my daughter and the young men had gathered. They were opening some bags. Inside the bags were all of Lucas’ clothes.

My insides heaved. I buckled and began to weep.

Lucas’ clothes were here, but he was not. Lucas’ clothes were here because he didn’t need them anymore.

“Too soon, too soon, too soon…” I muttered as liquid pain trickled down my cheeks. Lee, Lucas’ dearest friend, placed his hand on my shoulder and began to cry too. “It’s so hard,” he said, “because I have a memory of Lucas wearing pretty much everything they pull out of the bags.”

I asked my daughter to stop, but she said, “Please mom, let me go thru the bags. It makes me feel better to touch his things.” I understood. We all grieve and find comfort differently. As Lee and I walked out of the room, Grace asked if I wanted anything specific from Lucas’ clothing. I named the four things I wanted, and Grace promised to bring them to me. She continued to sort his possessions, setting aside those items she wanted to keep, and making other piles of things she thought Seth and Mary might want. I couldn’t watch, this sorting and distribution of the tangible evidence of my son’s life.

When Grace came back to our house that night, she brought me a bag. “Hi mom, here are Lucas’ things you asked for.” My dear, sweet, beautiful daughter, who was brave enough to bring me the requested items. I hugged and kissed her, then carried the bag up into our bedroom and dropped it on the floor in the corner nearest my bed.

Where it sat, untouched, for the next month.

This past weekend I mustered up enough courage to open the bag. Out flooded so many memories, contained in so few items.

A red blazer with gold buttons. Lucas wore it to high school graduation. A day of celebration. A milestone in my son’s life. A window of light and joy illuminating a year that had produced much pain, separation, and darkness in our family’s life.

Snakeskin ankle boots. Boots that Lucas sported, more often than not, whenever he would come over for dinner. Boots that reflected Lucas’ personality. Unconventional, unique, bold. Lucas and his boots…making a statement everywhere they went.

A wool toggle button sweater. It was just one of many sweaters Lucas owned and wore. Lucas almost always dressed in layers. That, too, reflected his personality. He was a boy of many thoughts and feelings, and some were hidden deep under other more visible emotions.

Black velvet tassel loafers. Soft and comforting. Just like my gentle, loving son. The shoes were my gift to Lucas this past Christmas. And they were the shoes he had on the last time I saw him. The shoes he wore when I didn’t know I was telling him goodbye for the final time.

I pulled on the sweater, buttoned it up, and took a deep breath. I could still smell my son. I slipped on the snakeskin boots and took a few steps around my bedroom. Wearing Lucas on the outside, trying to absorb him on the inside. I sat down on my bed and drew my fingers over the red blazer. Then I picked up the tassel loafers and stroked them gently, imagining the feel of my son’s cheek instead.

How can four items possibly represent the sum total of who my son was? They can’t. They are but a small reflection of Lucas, of the tangible and intangible effects that he left in this world he no longer inhabits.

As I continue to unpack Lucas, I just may choose to do so wearing his blazer and velvet tassel loafers.

 

No Safe Thoughts

Every waking moment of every day I think about Lucas. Except I don’t. Because it hurts too much. There are no safe thoughts about my son right now.

Each quiet moment, from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep, my mind instinctively seeks a thought about my firstborn son. I want to think about Lucas. I want to remember and treasure all the little details about the 21 years I had with him.

But every single memory I have of Lucas, every single thought, every single photo, is surrounded by a bramble of grief, with sharp spikey thorns bearing the words “no more”, “never again”, and “last time”. I desperately reach forward, seeking to embrace my son, and instead am rebuffed by the puncture wounds of the thorns that remind me that I will never again hold my son .

Fourth of July was my first holiday without my son. Lucas LOVED fireworks. Really, what boy doesn’t love the opportunity to light things on fire, watch them blow up, and be cheered on to do it over and over again? Fourth of July was a BIG DEAL in our old neighborhood.  We did it right. Food to rival the biggest southern Baptist picnic, and the best friends a kid (and parents) could have gathering in own front yards. Parents lingered over the food, while the kids pestered us for some action. We appeased them with sparklers and a few firecrackers until it got darker and the dads were ready to supervise the firework lighting mania. It truly was the ideal American way to celebrate Independence Day.

This Fourth of July, none of my children were home. When it started to get dark I went out on our back deck to watch the fireworks being lit in our neighborhood. Surrounded by booms and bursts of color, my mind began to drift to the memory of a particular 4^th of July when my kids were 2, 4, 6, and 8. I had made matching patriotic T shirts for each of the kids. As the pull of this memory grew, my pain intensified. I couldn’t quite remember what those shirts looked like. Did they have stars, or did they sport the kids’ handprints in red and blue? And what did I do with those shirts when I moved? I began to cry. I remembered taking a picture of my kids in those shirts, but that memory was quickly scratched away by the spikey thorn reminding me that I will never again get to take a picture of all four of my children together.

The fireworks escalated, and so did my tears. A few trickled down my face, then a steady stream, then deep heaving sobs. I couldn’t remember the details, and the more I tried to remember, the more it hurt. Tears were pouring down my face, and my heart was bleeding inside. And I still couldn’t remember. How could I forget the details of my son? Was I going to forget him, one thorn encased memory at a time?

Tonight, I climbed into the attic, sat down on a trunk, and opened the storage tub with all my photo albums. I NEEDED to find that picture, no matter how much it hurt. I NEEDED to remember the details. I flipped open the first photo album and the tears began. I opened the second photo album, and the tears turned to sobs. I opened the third, fourth, fifth, sixth and wailed in pain. Every single picture punctured me. Never again will my Lucas wear the Christmas hat. There will be no more candid shots of Lucas loving on his siblings.

And then….I found the photo. At first the pain was even sharper. I rocked back and forth in grief and agony. But gradually my tears began to slow down. I reached for an album again and cautiously opened it. Lucas’ face smiled at me. And I smiled back at him. A very tiny smile. But a smile. The thorny bramble gave way just a bit and I could see my son again. I remembered…

They were stars, not handprints.

                                    

Absorbing Grief

My son died a month ago today.  My son died.  I hate those words.  They are too big for my mouth.  I choke on them when I try to speak them out loud.  I can barely produce enough breath to make those words audible.  I don’t want to say them….ever.  I don’t want them to be true.

But they are.  My beautiful, gentle, loving son Lucas died a month ago today.  Even typing those words is painful.  It hurts deep, from my sternum to my soul.  The pain associated with the truth of those words is too much for me.  I don’t want to feel it.  I don’t want it near me.  I don’t want to recognize its presence.  But pretending it’s not here, trying to avoid it or postpone it, doesn’t make it go away, doesn’t make it not true.

My first born, my bubba, my boy who still called me “mama” died a month ago today.  And I have to begin absorbing the grief of that truth.  It’s huge, it’s heavy, it’s suffocating, and it’s scary.

I think I’ve been fighting the truth of his death.  I know I have.  I want to pretend he just moved to Australia.  That’s what I told my friend TJ when I met with him a few Saturdays ago to run out some of my grief.  He hugged me while I cried and then told me not to fight it so hard.  He said I needed to let it soak in, as heavy as it was, and then find ways to release the weight when it became too much.  It’s too much every day.  I carry the weight in physical tension in my body, and I carry the weight in a scramble of words inside my head.

I exercise every day I can, sometimes multiple times a day, to release the grief masquerading as tension inside my body.  But the words….the words keep bouncing around inside my head, with no real relief or outlet.  I need to wring out my brain the way I wring out my body.  I talk to my love, and I talk to my friends some, but there are SO MANY WORDS inside my brain.  I need a bigger outlet, or I can’t absorb any more.  Is there a saturation point for grief?

My son died a month ago today.  The shock is wearing off and the grief is hovering, descending, sinking in.  Being absorbed slowly, one hour at a time.  Some days it seems I can absorb more grief than others.  Yesterday I was saturated by 11 a.m.  I had already exercised two hours, but the grief seemed to pour in faster than the exercise could drain it off.  I felt heavy and sluggish within 10 minutes of finishing each class.   The words seemed to multiply and swell inside my brain.  I grew silent, suffocating in a sea of grief swollen, scrambled words.  I sobbed myself to sleep, and woke up this morning feeling made of cement.

Writing to wring out my brain.  That’s what I’m trying now.  The grief will continue to descend, and I will continue to absorb it.  I really wish I didn’t have to.  I certainly don’t welcome it, but I can’t refuse it either.  Absorb, saturate, wring, rest, repeat.  One day at a time.

My beautiful, loving, gentle son Lucas died a month ago today.  That’s all the grief I can absorb today.  Time to wring, rest, then repeat.