Waiting for another day of dull sadness to come to an end. The joy I find in my living children is overshadowed by the irreplaceable child who is gone. The middle child, the buffer, the friend and playmate to both. So full of life and so very loved. When I see the sadness mirrored in their eyes, the ongoing fallout from the trauma of their sister’s death, the pain is near unbearable. Waiting for the day I become accustomed to having two children instead of three.
Waiting for someone who understands my grief hasn’t lessened. It’s like she died yesterday. I don’t feel much better 11 months later. Each day is just an additional day I’ve had to live without her presence, another day I haven’t see her face, heard her voice, or touched her soft, warm cheek. I am learning to live with constant sadness, however, and learning to accept a new life of suffering. My eyes are more open to the suffering in others, my heart more compassionate.
Waiting for the day I no longer feel like a social leper, our tragedy causing acquaintances to pull away in fear of the nightmare of our reality. Yes, the death of a child can happen to anyone, and does every day. It’s not contagious, but it is un-fixable. And so I don’t feel anger, just a depressed acceptance of our marked differences from most everyone around us. I feel bad for making others uncomfortable. I understand the hopelessness of our situation more than anyone.
Waiting to care again about socializing in the first place. My fractured mind is not really present, engaged, able or interested for very long. Telling others about her loss can result in responses that may cause further pain to this already broken heart. Sometimes it feels safer to keep my pain to myself.
Waiting for this nightmare to be over; to wake up and find it will all have been a bad dream. I go from hour to hour, taking one step at a time, without any real enjoyment of anything. For no reason than to fill the hours as time passes along. Knowing that time does not heal all wounds; that is a cliche meant to offer false comfort. Only God can heal all wounds, I hear. Waiting for the day some healing will come, and to not feel guilty when it does.
Waiting for the day we no longer fear our children are dying when they have a headache, fever, upset stomach, or sniffle. We just can’t lose another daughter. Waiting for the shoe to drop; some life threatening illness, accident, or trauma would not be unexpected anymore, for us or others around us.
Waiting to feel God’s love and presence. Because I don’t right now. Instead, I feel disinterested, abandoned, and even fearful of the God I followed and thought I knew. The God who allowed my child to die, allowed me to watch it happen, and is allowing our broken family to suffer such unthinkable pain. I believe God doesn’t cause suffering, but we must admit he allows unimaginable suffering every day, all over the planet.
Waiting for a day that I feel will never come-the day I no longer feel I am merely waiting for this life to finally be over. Waiting to see Fiona again.