I hit a big freaking wall yesterday. It wasn’t a slight fender-bender. No. It was a full-contact, crash-test-dummy-ejecting fiasco. For half a second as I was flying through the air, I felt a brief embodiment of joy as the last bit of my sanity was stripped away from my soul – which in my mind sounded like velcro being pulled apart – as I embraced the thought that impact was coming soon and would put me out of my misery.
Of course, all this really means is that I cried really hard for a really long time. In fact, I cried so hard that I fell asleep really early, which is why I’m awake and writing this at 3:10 am.
These early morning hours are the hardest. I just lay here thinking of all the things that are not going as planned, which is darn near everything. He’s asleep in his room after making it through another day of being my quietly brave boy. Without making too much noise, I go and check on him while he’s asleep. He can’t protest my making a big deal over him if he’s not aware that I’m doing it. I find that beautiful pulse on his wrist as I gently hold his still hand, willing my heart to beat in time with his. Feeling the connection. Committing to memory. And wondering…
Being mad with myself for thinking that way even though people are talking that way. Make the most of it, Sarah. Make it magical.
That’s a tremendous amount of pressure. Especially when I’m flying through the air waiting to land in a world where my son doesn’t live. And I’m left with the memory, fearful that my mind won’t remember just how it is. How beautiful. How amazing. How powerful he truly is and what a blessing he is to just about everyone on this planet.
I’m grieving. I feel guilty about that because he’s still here. But I can’t keep up. It’s like I’m at school, taking notes for a test. Wait! I missed that last bit! Can you repeat it? Will it be on the test? What if I forget?
What if I fail?
And opening up my inner-most self here to everyone. Anonymous readers. Most wonderfully supportive. Some anxious to be critical. Others wanting to convince me that “he’ll be in a better place.” Telling me things I don’t want to hear. Like a piece of mail I know contains terrible news and simply refusing to open it in hopes that it will go away.
But these are the dark hours. It won’t last for long. My fit of exhaustion will finally win and give me respite for a while, recharging enough to get through another day.
And somehow finding the strength to make it through.