It just became too difficult. Last fall, when I was starting to get into the meat of the early parts of mom's disease, I was actually "reliving" things a year later in time. Almost daily at this point, I was awaking and saying to myself, a year ago Mom was still here, and we were doing this... But I was trying to write about things that were happening much earlier than that. So, it was confusing.
It became too painful. It was just too painful to relive the early parts of the disease, when hope was still high, at the same time I was trying to grieve the loss of the hope, and the loss of her, and remembering the end stages as they happened, because that is me, I remember too much; too much detail, too many little things, until it overwhelms me, and I have difficulty putting it aside, and actually living in the present.
So, I quit writing. I have wanted to write often in the past year, but like I said, I didn't think I could write about me; write about how I feel, how it affects me now. But that is just my own silliness. Isn't that the point of this blog?!? To heal thyself.
It has been almost two years since she was gone. I think I am better, at least the edges of the grief have dulled some. I sometimes have entire days when I don't think about it, when I don't have the urge to pick up the telephone and call her and tell her something. Then, something will happen, some huge stress at work that I would have vented to her about, and it hits me that I no longer have that outlet, that I can't do that any more, and the pain and loneliness wells up inside of me and overwhelms me, consumes me in a wave of physical aching that makes it hard to breathe.
Sometimes that happens at the most inconvenient of times, in the line at a supermarket, in public, while I am talking about something, and the memory triggers the tears. Breathe! Blink my eyes, breathe deeply, push it back down, push it further down, compose myself. Being in public helps to avoid the pain, it allows me to ignore it for a while.
It is much worse when I am alone, in the shower, driving in my car, sitting in my office. Because when it happens at those times, it is so much harder to turn off. At those times, when I let it out, when I really allow myself to feel it, at those times, I forget to breathe. The tears well up and spill over my eyelids, and down my cheeks in a steady stream, flowing freely, as the pain comes again. Then, I have to breathe, I suck in a huge breath, and stop breathing again, because to breathe at the same time is too hard. Because the pain in my heart takes up all the room there is in my body, there isn't any more room for air.
And this goes on for several minutes, holding my breath for long periods of time, tears flowing like a river now, every nerve ending in my body aching and screaming out in pain, and the hurt in my heart makes it want to stop beating. A huge breath in, and then no breathing, just crying and hurting, and then a huge breath out, and then no breathing, just crying and aching, and hurting, and trembling, feeling everything, feeling nothing...
Until my brain says - wait a minute, we NEED to breathe. So then I spend a few minutes really gasping for air, really taking deep breaths, deep, sobbing breaths, and letting the life back in, and the relief comes, the relief from the absolute release of the pain that I have held back, the release of the stress and the realization that I am alive, that I survived, and that I must go on living, that this is the way it is.
Slowly, I come back to regular breathing, and the tears slow, and it is easier to breathe because the pain has been released, for a while anyway, until the next time. And the resolve comes, resolve to go on, to be happy because that is what she would want, she wouldn't want me sitting here crying, she would want me laughing and living. So, I breathe, every day, and I remember, and I long for the past, and I am reminded regularly that I am not alone, that so many other people are going through the same pain and loss, and that this is simply how life goes; it continues, through the loss, past the loss.
Those times when I really let the pain come, and feel the loss are less frequent, thankfully. They are still there, and I am told, will never go away, but, it does happen less often, and for that I am truly grateful. And so, like the Dude, I will abide. I will keep living, I will keep growing, hopefully, and I will always remember to breathe.
