dark hours

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…

How long?

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.

 

Join the Conversation

6 Comments

  1. I can’t even imagine what all of you are going through and have been for years. My heart aches for you.

    Your writing is so wonderful. It is descriptive and has such emotion that I cried with you. I hope it is a bit therapeutic for you.

    To the drama people, suck it!

    Like

  2. Oh Sarah, I’m speechless. I have no new words that are going to help or make any kind of difference. I hope you know in that beautiful heart and head of yours that we are here and want to make things better for you and your sweet children. We pray and pray some more. You are loved! I’m still in awe of your ability to write words that make us feel like we want to be better people, givers and not takers. We have learned so much from you all. You help us see how fortunate we are. And how much all life matters. Sending all my love and prayers dear friend! Hugs!

    Like

  3. One more day and another day hoping for many more to come, living each day like its the last and happy to repeat on a daily basis, thanking God for another day, making sure your Bean is well aware of your un-dying devotion and love making his time here with you and your daughter knowing the true meaning of family and love, getting every second to be able to hug or cuddle or laugh and just absorbing each other letting Ben know you are his rock as he is yours, the time will never be enough, but he will be waiting in the end, and he will watch over you and Mad, make all the moments count, surround each other with love. My heart breaks for you and Ben and Mad, you are loved and in my prayers!

    Like

  4. Sarah,
    You are loved.
    You are so very courageous.
    You are a mom scared to death of losing your amazing kid to stupid cancer.
    You have permission to be scared and afraid of what the future holds.
    You are in my prayers.
    You are amazing.
    You are a mom… the hardest job on earth.
    Xo, mk fleming

    Like

  5. When Jackson was sick a mother who had recently lost her son gave me the advise to not grieve him while he’s still here and I tried very hard to take that advise. Mostly I succeeded, but like you, during those quiet alone times my heart would take over and break into a million pieces. I wish so desperately that I had some magical advise or words of wisdom for you but the truth is nothing I or anyone says changes anything. What I can do is send you my love and wrap my virtual arms around you giving you the biggest bear hug I can without actually giving you bodily harm. I love you my dear friend.

    Like

Leave a comment

Leave a Reply to Kim Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: