I’m alone, in the most literal sense of the word and it is usually then, in the solitude, when he comes to me. I mean, of course, he is always there in my periphery – a wavering figure against the backdrop of everyday life. But when I am quiet and alone my vision focuses and his blurry outlines solidify. I’m tempted to pull out his three photographs and let myself sink into the familiar darkness. There are times, like this moment, when his absence fills up the entirety of my being.
We’ve just returned from a visit with Leif’s family in Oregon and the jolt of living in the truth of his death has left me reeling. In those few days it became all too easy to imagine a reality different than the one we have been given and almost unbearable to live in the one we have.
I still want to say his name and tell his story but I am finding it more and more exhausting emotionally to allow others to participate in –and observe- my grief. The more time that passes the more uncomfortable I am in letting people see just how broken I still am, because this is the part in the screenplay when everything is supposed to start wrapping up in a satisfying way for audience members. This is the part where I should start expounding on the gifts that his death has brought me; a greater sense of sympathy for the world at large, a greater sense of appreciation for the beautiful things in life, a greater sense of self. Maybe that is all true in one way or another but right now, at this very moment, I just want him back.
What I do know for sure, and maybe for now this is enough, is that I’m one year and forty-seven days older and in that time I have somehow managed to haphazardly stitch myself together into a whole person again, or at least a reasonable facsimile of one. I'm not what I used to be, and certainly on days like these that shows more clearly than usual. I’m threadbare in places, with oversized button eyes, mismatched threading and dingy cotton stuffing that peaks through in places and for which I am constantly trying to sneakily push back in less someone see just how shoddily I’ve been put back together. I’m whole –as complete as I can or ever will be- but if anyone were to look closely enough just how timeworn I am would be apparent as would just how much I still miss my son.
*Thank you to Angie for bringing this project to life.
"I still want to say his name and tell his story but I am finding it more and more exhausting emotionally to allow others to participate in –and observe- my grief. The more time that passes the more uncomfortable I am in letting people see just how broken I still am, because this is the part in the screenplay when everything is supposed to start wrapping up in a satisfying way for audience members. This is the part where I should start expounding on the gifts that his death has brought me; a greater sense of sympathy for the world at large, a greater sense of appreciation for the beautiful things in life, a greater sense of self. Maybe that is all true in one way or another but right now, at this very moment, I just want him back."
ReplyDeleteSorry to just quote a huge slab of your own amazing post right back at you, but this really hit home for me. It is the shocking truth of it all.
So glad you took part in this challenge and so very glad I have found your blog as a result.
Your writing is a gift to your son. Keep it up.
xo
This is so beautiful it's making my throat ache. There is something really good about things becoming good enough.
ReplyDeleteI'm also visiting my in-laws at the moment, and this is part that I am especially feeling: "In those few days it became all too easy to imagine a reality different than the one we have been given and almost unbearable to live in the one we have."
Sending you much love.
This is beautiful Brianna
ReplyDelete"right now, at this very moment, I just want him back."
*sigh* Me too.
xxx
Hi Brianna, Thanks for dropping by my blog and commenting, and most importantly, thanks for leaving a trail so I can find your writing. There is so much to think about in your writing. (And I will jot some of my thoughts here and risk seeming quite loopy) Like that you are 1 year and 47 days older. I am thinking about that time in my life and how I felt so much older, like an age that could not be counted in days or years. When you write about the threadbare stitched back together you with dingy stuffing I get a visual image of a rag doll. Then I have a desire to stitch a rag doll and just look at her to see if I can see myself. Thanks for writing this Brianna.
ReplyDeleteBrianna, You write so beautifully.
ReplyDeleteI am so with you on the hiding your grief because others expect that you are getting over it now. They will never get it and, if the only way to get it is to lose a child, then I don't want them to get it, but that doesn't make it easier for us.
Your description of the stuffed toy reminds me of the "Velveteen Rabbit". I wrote about ti in a post on books a while back. It is an image that really fits for me too.
Much love. So sorry Amos isn't in your arms.
x Louise
Brianna, You are a great writer. And, like others have commented I too can relate to feeling like other's are expecting me to be okay and feeling emotionally exhausted when sharing my grief with others. Part of me wants hide it and the other part of me wants it tattooed across my forehead so nobody can forget.
ReplyDeleteI also really like your description of being a worn out, makeshift doll. Tattered, but whole.
I feel raggedy too, Brianna, threatening to unravel.
ReplyDeleteAnd the thing about allowing people to participate in your grief - YES! It's exhausting to constant interpret Iris for everyone, although I'm grateful for their interest, I suppose.
Beautiful post.
So much of this is so true for me, too. I don't like to talk about Calla with most people--partly because I am afraid of what they're going to say, or do--partly, too, because I just don't want to share her with just anyone.
ReplyDeleteI just want him back for you, too. xo
Perfect. Every word of it. Grief is exhausting, I only wish there were a way to make the normal people understand that. Much love to you~
ReplyDeleteThis is so beautiful Brianna. Thanks for sharing in the project and filling us in on your state of grief. I found this line particularly beautiful and poignant all at once: "In those few days it became all too easy to imagine a reality different than the one we have been given and almost unbearable to live in the one we have." I feel this almost daily.
ReplyDeleteAnd this line, of course: "What I do know for sure, and maybe for now this is enough, is that I’m one year and forty-seven days older and in that time I have somehow managed to haphazardly stitch myself together into a whole person again, or at least a reasonable facsimile of one." This makes me think of the Mumford and Sons song After the Storm.
Night has always pushed up day
You must know life to see decay
But I won't rot, I won't rot
Not this mind and not this heart,
I won't rot.
Anyway, I loved what you wrote and it's nice to know someone from LA. In case you haven't heard about the MISS support group (for babyloss parents) that meets every month, I wanted to send this along in case you wanted to come: http://www.missfoundation.org/group/found.html. This month it will be the third Wednesday, June 15. We have only been to the one last month, but it was really nice to be around other parents. Some were new like us and others are a few years out.
Lots of love to you and your partner. I will be back to read more.
Josh
This is such a powerful, lovely post, and so much of it really resonates. I love the way you put this - "The more time that passes the more uncomfortable I am in letting people see just how broken I still am, because this is the part in the screenplay when everything is supposed to start wrapping up in a satisfying way for audience members." I still spend more time than I should resenting and envying those audience members even though so many have been lovely to me.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad I found your blog, though I'm so sorry for the loss of George.
love and light to you always Brianna....
ReplyDeleteI'm so sorry Brianna. I commented before reading any more of your blog and just assumed your blog was named after your son.
ReplyDeleteTime disappeared after I realised my mistake, and then so did all access to the internet. I am so sorry George is not here with you.
Much love, Louise
"This is the part where I should start expounding on the gifts that his death has brought me;"
ReplyDeletePeople expect us, after a time, to share with the world the "gifts" we have been given because of our children's deaths. I don't get that (and yet I do), but I resent them for it. Those gifts, if any, are mine alone, and their presumption in thinking something good comes out of my child's death...well, it infuriates me. And I won't apologize for that.
I'm visiting from Angie's project and I'm blown away by this: your screenplay image is totally, absolutely spot on. I had never thought of it like that but it was one of those paragraphs that made me exhale and say "Yes. That is it, that is how it absolutely is."
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry your son is not with you.
I'm with Virginia.
ReplyDeletein less someone see just how shoddily I’ve been put back together
Nearly three years later I am back together. But yes, shoddily so. And not the person that I was before.
I wish that you could have your George back. I hope you can find a little comfort in his presence, wavering at the periphery. Always there.