Sunday, September 25, 2005 11:49 AM CDT
A month. It's been a month. Has it really been a month? Can it have only been a month?
Some days are so hard. I read my last entry...."I couldn't do this without you." And I think, "Am I really doing this?" The answer is no, not really. I look like I'm doing this. I'm doing what needs to be done. But I don't really feel here.
The numbness, this self-protective shell is all encompassing, it infiltrates everything. I remember it so well. When Kyle died. When Kenny was diagnosed with autism. I remember shortly after that, holding Zach at his first birthday, smiling and clapping and helping him open presents and blow out candles. In the pictures, in the video, I look like any other mommy. I remember feeling dead inside, wondering if I would ever, ever feel anything that resembled "happy" again.
But you do, you find your way back. I work with toddlers. I watch them learn to walk. They fall and they cry and they fall again. I've often thought, "If I fell that many times, I'd just give up and keep crawling." But they don't. They get up again and again until they've got it. And so will I.
In the meantime, nothing really seems very important. In comparison to the huge whirlwind of desolation that I know lies beneath the numbness, I find little motivation for anything else.
It takes enormous amounts of energy to learn to live without him. And I'm not even there yet. I'm not learning to live without him yet. I'm learning to stay alive without him. That's all I can do. I say and do all the things I'm supposed to, but inside there's this sense of being on hold. I wonder how this world can keep on spinning, madly, wildly as it always has, when for me, it's stopped.
People say "how are you doing? how are the kids?" I laugh inside. There are no answers to those questions. People ask them because there really isn't anything else to say. I say I'm getting through the days. One at a time. And I am. That's all. I don't seem to have room to return phone calls, answer e-mails or write thank you cards. But at the end of the day, I'm still here. That's something.
Two of the hardest days have passed. My birthday, two days after Dave died. Our anniversary, last Tuesday, September 20. 19 years. Deb and I went to dinner, ordered our husband's favorites, then came home and watched the video of Dave and my wedding. We laughed watching it. The music was beautiful, Mark and Erik singing. Dave's song for me...."I want to grow older with you, make each day a dream come true, love has slowly created one from two. Can't wait to spend the rest of my life, growing older with you." The funny part was Dave and I talking to each other, the whole way through. Aren't you supposed to be quiet up there? Dave and I were talking, laughing, smiling.
I'm going to try to post some pictures from the service on the caringbridge photo page...click the link above.
A month. It's been a month. Has it really been a month? Can it have only been a month?
Some days are so hard. I read my last entry...."I couldn't do this without you." And I think, "Am I really doing this?" The answer is no, not really. I look like I'm doing this. I'm doing what needs to be done. But I don't really feel here.
The numbness, this self-protective shell is all encompassing, it infiltrates everything. I remember it so well. When Kyle died. When Kenny was diagnosed with autism. I remember shortly after that, holding Zach at his first birthday, smiling and clapping and helping him open presents and blow out candles. In the pictures, in the video, I look like any other mommy. I remember feeling dead inside, wondering if I would ever, ever feel anything that resembled "happy" again.
But you do, you find your way back. I work with toddlers. I watch them learn to walk. They fall and they cry and they fall again. I've often thought, "If I fell that many times, I'd just give up and keep crawling." But they don't. They get up again and again until they've got it. And so will I.
In the meantime, nothing really seems very important. In comparison to the huge whirlwind of desolation that I know lies beneath the numbness, I find little motivation for anything else.
It takes enormous amounts of energy to learn to live without him. And I'm not even there yet. I'm not learning to live without him yet. I'm learning to stay alive without him. That's all I can do. I say and do all the things I'm supposed to, but inside there's this sense of being on hold. I wonder how this world can keep on spinning, madly, wildly as it always has, when for me, it's stopped.
People say "how are you doing? how are the kids?" I laugh inside. There are no answers to those questions. People ask them because there really isn't anything else to say. I say I'm getting through the days. One at a time. And I am. That's all. I don't seem to have room to return phone calls, answer e-mails or write thank you cards. But at the end of the day, I'm still here. That's something.
Two of the hardest days have passed. My birthday, two days after Dave died. Our anniversary, last Tuesday, September 20. 19 years. Deb and I went to dinner, ordered our husband's favorites, then came home and watched the video of Dave and my wedding. We laughed watching it. The music was beautiful, Mark and Erik singing. Dave's song for me...."I want to grow older with you, make each day a dream come true, love has slowly created one from two. Can't wait to spend the rest of my life, growing older with you." The funny part was Dave and I talking to each other, the whole way through. Aren't you supposed to be quiet up there? Dave and I were talking, laughing, smiling.
I'm going to try to post some pictures from the service on the caringbridge photo page...click the link above.
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