Hell Week

How Do I Do This?

The memories flood into my thought-space and there’s not much I can do about it. Part of me wants to sit in bed all day and stare at photos from TJ’S last week. And part of me says “get your ass outta bed!” I don’t know which will win. Right now it’s the “stay in bed” voice. I feel paralyzed and even when I look around at all that waits to be tended to, I just don’t give a fuck. Maybe one more hour in bed? Two? I don’t know. I don’t know how to get through today.

Usually having something to do helps and while there’s plenty to do here at home, I just can’t muster the ability to put one foot in front of the other. I got up and took care of the animals and made some coffee. I thought that would get me going. But not this time. Maybe tomorrow, with work ahead of me…yeah I’m sure forced labor will do the trick.

My thoughts, for now, are stuck on him. The memory of getting his flight settled so he could get back to CHOP and his doc. The memory of what was to come, the amazing flight nurses who carried us from DC to Philly. We fought so hard for that helicopter. DC wanted to send my fragile boy on a 3 hour ride up 95. I wasn’t having it. No, too risky. But God intervened and found us a chopper that was headed from Philly to DC and back so TJ & I got our airlift.

Anyhow, rabbit holes……if I counted on both hands the things that need to be done I would likely run out of fingers. But I just don’t care. This week, 2 more weeks really, I am like a deer in headlights. Maybe it’s worse because we’re in a new home and TJ should be here. Maybe it’s because 1 week after his death anniversary is the birthday of my sweet departed sister, Katie, AND the anniversary of TJ’s funeral. That should be a fun weekend. I’m taking donations of wine and playlist suggestions.

Well, maybe I can make it up from this chair. Honestly,  I’m not sure I want to. Is that ok to say out loud? I feel quasi-beckoned to be productive. I felt that way last night at 9:30pm. Telling this to my 20-year old, they informed me, “Ma, it’s kinda late to be starting any projects.” I think it was my brain’s way of circumventing the thoughts that were knocking at the door. Wandering back into the family room I started to sort through a few things. I hate that four months after moving I’m still in a bit of disarray. One stack of papers was divvied up between “keep”, “shred”, and “trash”. That’s as far as I got. No, wait, I moved a box of arts-and-crafts supplies to be tossed. But beyond that I couldn’t go further. I plopped back down on the trundle and watched a really intense drama.

Stumbling up to bed, a shower, a few minutes talking to my honey….I couldn’t turn the thoughts off until 1:30am. It’s this weird combination of a blessing and a curse. I know staying up late makes the next day harder. That would be so even in normal circumstances. I can’t say no to the memories, however. If I don’t immerse myself in the mental & visual reminiscence then I would never get to sleep. The tapping at the door only turns to a thump and then to a beat that won’t go away. So I open the lid to the box of memories. And in doing so it becomes the thing that pushes me to the brink and into the ocean of tears, finally wearing me out until I have no choice but to succumb to rest. And I am certain this is how it will be….always.

And so begins my hell week. I know I am not here alone. I know there are others in the hateful club, this fraternity of grief. For this I am sorry. I am sorry for your suffering. I am sorry to dredge up memories that perhaps you have been able to suppress and now here I come along stirring the tempest, poking the bear. And at the same time I know that it is those who share this pain who are the ones who support me and take on the storm as I do. Thank you for being storm chasers with me.