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Thursday, November 05, 2015

Grief and scowling

mother grief child died
Tile at Riley's elementary school
My husband was not home for dinner Tuesday night. He was at a school meeting. I sat at the table with three loud children. Enthusiastic children. They were excited about the cheesy garlic bread I made. They wanted to grate mountains of cheese onto their spaghetti. They did not like the look of their apple and beet salad with walnuts. But they laughed. They hummed. Told jokes. Asked for seconds of bread and pasta and cups of water. Said please and thank you. They were just being themselves.

I scowled at them.

I couldn’t wait for mealtime to be done so that I could excuse myself and retreat to my quiet bedroom. I spend a lot of time in my quiet bedroom these days. But just before people were done eating, my nine year old caught my eye in a lull in the hullabaloo and said: “Mom, I want to apologize. I know we’ve been acting a little crazy. And it seems like it’s really upsetting you.”

Wow.

Despite their version of craziness, they see what’s going on. How sweet of him to notice. At the same time, how sad that he’s noticing. How sad that mom was scowling in the first place. Scowling so much that my son felt the need to apologize. I said thank you for noticing. I told him it wasn’t about them having fun; it was just about me feeling sad about Riley.

He was right, though. I was really upset. The things I used to enjoy about my kids are upsetting now. I get mad at them. I scowl. I don’t like fun. Or laughter or any kind. Mealtime used to be a joyful event. A few months before Riley went into the hospital last year while my husband was out of town, we spent an entire meal only singing to each other. As in, anything that needed to be said was sung, not spoken. “Would you please pass the cheese?” was a melodic request followed by: “Yes. I will pass the cheese, pass the cheese, PASS the cheese.” Think Bohemian Rhapsody. It was the best. 

Laughter is now grounds for disgust. I just don’t know how to let things roll off of me anymore. Or really be in the moment. I’m lost in despair because of what happened to Riley; I’m lost in anguish because I have to live this life without him. Most of the time, I feel like I’m in sensory overload. It’s like the whir of a stove fan overpowering most of what’s going on around me. It makes it hard to hear things. It makes is hard for me to concentrate. Before Riley died, I struggled when there was a lot of sensory input around. When the kids were talking and there was music playing and the oven fan was running, my brain was stuffed with too much to process. Now I feel that way all of the time, even in a quiet room. That is my baseline. I’m always running at capacity. Add three enthusiastic voices singing and laughing and talking over each other and my brain feels like it’s going to burst. Hence, the scowling.

If my brain were a balloon, and grief was water, my brain would look strained by the amount of liquid forced into the allotted space. Grief has exceeded its capacity. Each person or sound is like turning on the tap even though the latex has no room for another drop. Even kids’ laughter. Or maybe I should say especially kids’ laughter. My brain cannot take the input. Despite the talks we’ve had about them feeling sad on the inside even though they look happy on the outside, it’s hard to accept. All that laughter feels like a betrayal of the truth. All that laughter is stretching my brain beyond capacity to tolerate my reality.

There are times that I can manage, that I enjoy being with the kids. I like reading together before bedtime. It doesn't happen very often, but I like it when it does. It's a sit-and-be-quiet time. We are together in a way where I don't feel overloaded. We read Riley's favorite books or talk about whether Riley would like this or that in the stories. I can almost imagine that he's there listening, too. Although, I'm sure he was also there laughing at the table, making jokes, singing along, sprinkling hot pepper flakes on his dinner, then lifting his shirt over his head, spinning it around like a lasso, trying to get everyone to laugh.

I really don't know why I manage one, but not the other. I could speculate, but I think I'll just be grateful that there are times when the scowling gives way to togetherness.

8 comments:

  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

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  2. I commend you for being so honest, and I feel your pain through your words. I can imagine you are tired of suggestions, but I have found so much value in meditating that I wanted to at least mention it. You are all in my thoughts!! xox

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    1. Thank you, Heike. A & I were meditating together for a bit after Riley died, but I kept falling asleep. He swears by it. I mainly liked lying down under a warm blanket (although I guess you're not supposed to lie down to meditate). For the past few months we've been running together in the morning and it clears my head a bit. I should give the whole meditation thing another try--can't hurt.

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  3. Very interesting to me to that you write about this. To this day I need to take to my bed for relief. Caring for my grandsons brings feelings of joy and sorrow. I want my daughter to be so grateful for two healthy babies and be joyous all the time. I want everyone to understand me and acknowledge the depth of my hurt and to celebrate that I have survived and love with a half heart that still needs tender care. I remain very fragile and have hard time feeling joy. I expect my living children to be sensitive to my needs and especially when helping my daughter, great understanding and appreciation. She is my daughter who is here. Loss brings grief forever. I still have yet to recover. I lost my marriage and life I wanted as a result. Too hard to truly ever recover. Creeps up when something inside me is triggered. Anyway, rambly but I know the feeling you describe well.

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    1. I so appreciate you sharing with me. And I hope to meet you one day and hear all about your journey, and your sweet Regan. All that you're describing is what I feel and what I imagine I'll feel years from now... that I now live with half a heart that will need tender care for the rest of my life. Joy is so tricky...experiencing it myself and witnessing it in others. I have no idea how I get through the days. When I was at the grocery store tonight, I bumped into an acquaintance who told me that, "It is all for the greater good." I wanted to punch him. Really, I wished I'd had the wherewithal to ask him what he means by that because I have not the slightest idea and I find that notion offensive. I had the privilege of seeing you daughter and meeting your son-in-law and two beautiful grandsons last Sunday. The journey ahead looks as if it's filled with land mines. xxoo

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  4. Carrie8:27 PM

    I don't even know what to say but I read this and knew exactly what you were talking about. I not only knew it but I felt a bit guilty knowing this is exactly how life has become for me but also I cannot change it even when I know it's happening. In a way it's nice to know I'm not going totally crazy and that it appears to be part of the grieving process but it would just be nice to have the old way of life back. Thanks for putting all of you out there. I guess now I will get out of the bath tub, second time in here today and this time I've been here for an hour and a half.

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    1. Thank you for writing to me, Carrie. No, I cannot change it even when I know it's happening. In fact, I'm acutely aware that it is happening and I try to will the children to stop. I do not shout at them or tell them to do anything differently. I just scowl and feel crushed under the weight of my grief. And then I feel guilty as well. Riley wouldn't want me to be angry with the kids. He'd want me to be laughing with them. But I cannot stop how I'm feeling. And I have no idea if it's part of the grieving process or if it's just part of my grieving process. I just hope that they can take in the good me, the present me, the nice, non-scowling me when she shows up. And that those good moments outweigh the crap moments/hours/days when I cannot be in their world.

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  5. You write so beautifully. You have the ability to articulate what most cannot. I understand your pain and feel every word you write. Sending you thoughts of peace and love.

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